


Era of Static and Contraband

by jane_potter



Series: The Riotverse [4]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the crew of the Enterprise begins to come together just in time to steal her from right beneath Vulcan's nose. Coming together is a beginning. Staying together is a success. Working together is piracy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Jim withdrew his knife. It was slick with green blood, the same shade as the shimmer on Spock's lips. He looked down at it for a moment, then caught Spock's eyes and deliberately let it drop on the ground._

"I think I could hate your guts, but you're my kind of asshole. Still want that job?"

The Vulcan arched a single sardonic eyebrow, saying quite clearly, You have to ask?__

"You said you've got contacts. Can you get us a ship?"

A keen, thoughtful look distancing his expression, Spock nodded after a moment. "Yes."

Jim wasn't anywhere near happy enough to grin, but he managed a tight, grim smile when he took Spock's hand. A spark ignited between them, Spock's eyes going intense once more as Jim shook his hand, taking a moment to stroke his thumb deliberately over the Vulcan's knuckles. "Then welcome to our little... enterprise, Mr Spock."

The wound was less than four millimetres deep and only twelve millimetres long, but the parted skin burned as though a hot wire were being applied to it. The description was not merely poetic, but accurate; Spock could attest from experience that both sensations were quite similar. Still, he had to appreciate Kirk's precision with his knife, for the blade had neither stuttered nor caused damage to the muscle fibres below. Given the tone of their partnership so far-- all seventeen seconds of it-- Spock had the feeling that such skill with a knife would come in handy.

Spock drew his hand away from the cut on his abdomen and lowered his shirt once more. Dirty and torn as it already was, the shirt was a suitable fabric on which to wipe his bloody fingertips. "It is superficial," he announced. "We may proceed."

Standing a few feet away and cleaning his knife off on the leg of his jeans, Kirk looked up with his eyebrows raised. "You really were putting on a _hell_ of a show," he said. "Soon as it's over, the Vulcan voice comes right back out." He sheathed the knife in his belt buckle once more. "Whatever. How soon can we get my ship and go?"

Spock raised an eyebrow at Kirk's usage of the possessive adjective. "If all goes well, within a number of hours."

The dim corridor lead directly out of the club. When Kirk and Spock emerged into a back alley, the lights of Sdvaar were bright enough compared to the hall's lighting that Spock had to shuttle his inner eyelids several times to disperse water. He saw Kirk squinting through the same effect, too wary to close his eyes for long enough to wipe them.

"Well, lead on."

Spock hesitated minutely. "One moment."

He retreated several steps farther back into the alley before pulling out his communicator, doubting that somebody like Kirk would be able to keep himself from reading the screen. Spock felt a spike of impatience in Kirk's psi waves but didn't pull up his shields any farther than their current half-screened slump. Receiving Kirk's emotions was one of the only ways he had to interpret the human's erratic and contradictory behaviour.

The chronometer on screen said that it was 02:17 in the morning. His father wouldn't be awake for another three hours, his mother for four and a half. His absence hadn't been noticed yet, then. Spock navigated into a messaging program and then hesitated again, his fingers hovering over the keys.

Another juncture, another opportunity at which to turn back.

_No_.

Spock typed quickly. Knowing what he was about to do-- that it would be the last thing he said to his parents for a very long time, and that it was a lie-- it was a struggle to keep the message brief. Amanda might not notice a change from his usual syntax, but Sarek certainly would.

_I was unavoidably called into the college laboratory at 01:09 this morning. My absence should be anticipated for the remainder of the day. At this point, the time of my return is impossible to predict. Spock._

It was imperative that his parents were not alerted to the fact that anything was amiss. Matters would be complicated enough as it was. If Spock and Kirk's crew were unable to gain possession of a ship and depart _w'l'qn_ that day, Spock could always return home late in the evening with his parents none the wiser, then leave for good at a later date.

Spock's mouth was tighter than usual when he went out to join Kirk on the street, and Kirk noticed. "Bad news?"

"No," Spock said briefly, and strode into the press of foot traffic without another word, leaving Kirk to follow him.

He had disappointed his parents before. Failed to meet their expectations. Angered them, even-- on Sarek's part as well as Amanda's, Spock was sure. But he had never done anything that might, in human terms, break Amanda's heart.

If there was anything that could actually cause such a painful and visceral response, what Spock was about to do was probably it.

He very much doubted that she would still be proud of him in ten hours.

*

The main transporter facility was still bustling with traffic in and out of it, jostling Spock as he walked up the main steps. Though Spock had remained in front of Kirk for the entire walk, he had felt the grating beacon of Kirk's psi energy following two metres behind him the whole way. At the top of the steps, however, he felt Kirk's mental waves rumble with discontent, and stopped to allow the man to catch up.

"The hell are we doing back here?" Kirk asked. "Unless you already _have _a ship in spacedock, we can't get anything done here. The _Number One_'s completely wrecked. We had to crawl in here on impulse power, and I'm surprised her hull didn't rupture on the way. There's no way she'll take us to a shipyard."

"I do," Spock said. "Have a ship in spacedock," he added, at Kirk's bewildered look. He was gratified by the disbelieving pleasure that bloomed on Kirk's face. It was an attractive expression, somewhere between awed and vaguely enamoured. Spock could see how the thrill of lying might encourage humans to do it so habitually.

"Is she big enough for nine crew, plus ten, fifteen others?" Kirk asked, without warning. "Is she fast? Battle-ready? What's the grade on her hull plating? Gotta be higher than a Universal six. What's the cannon count? I'm not taking her if she doesn't have plasma cannons. Can we modify her for more cannons? How much cargo room-- more or less than two hundred cubic metres? Can she run past warp 7 with a full load?"

Perhaps the man would be a good captain after all. His unexpectedly exacting attention to the ship's capabilities-- beyond a warp drive and an unbreeched hull, that was-- gave Spock in a slightly more favourable view of Kirk's attitude. He had no desire to serve under a careless captain. Perhaps Kirk's reputation for stunning genius was well-founded, after all.

"I believe the ship will perform adequately," Spock said, and knew he sounded cagey. By the expression on his face, Kirk didn't like it any more than Robau had, but Spock gestured for Kirk to follow him and went into the facility before Kirk could demand an explanation. The human's mental energy roiled, jagged and furious--

\--and then subsided into exhaustion tinged with mere suspicion. Spock let out the breath he had been holding. Riding the knife's edge of Kirk's emotions was a trying experience. He suspected that the calculated slink of his hips as he walked away had helped matters significantly, though.

Sdvaar's main transporter facility was an enormous place, an octagonal building with three levels built around a central atrium, which was open all the way to the domed roof. There was a transporter pad on each wall of the building, half for departures and half for arrivals. Long lines of spacegoing beings snaked away from each of the twenty-four pads. The cavernous dome echoed with chatter in countless languages, voices bouncing around the polished metal walls like the foreign emotions colliding against Spock's mental shields.

"Where to?" Kirk asked, catching up to his side.

Spock inclined his head towards the departure pad with the shortest queue. "Use your docking token to get us up to the spacedock," he said, his voice slightly more quiet than usual. He felt exposed beneath the white lights, exposed. He made sure to keep an arm folded close to his left side, over the bloody tear in his jacket.

Kirk eyed him curiously, as though wondering why Spock couldn't gain access to the orbital facility on his own, but pushed his way into the line without protest.

Spock didn't underestimate Kirk enough to think that the man wasn't starting to put things together already. There was no helping it, though-- Spock didn't _have_ a ship in spacedock, and therefore didn't have a token of his own. Kirk's pass was the only way he was getting up to the station.

Standing in line, Spock remained silent and kept his head lowered, his chin brushing the collar of his jacket. Beneath the white, unforgiving lights of the facility, he knew that the illusory effects of his cosmetics would be all but destroyed, reduced to coloured powder and black paint without the softening, blurring aid of poor lighting. Where he had blended perfectly on Sdvaar's streets, he stood out in the transporter facility, and would doubtless do so even more up on spacedock 19. As it was, the Trill in line behind them was eying him strangely. Among the _w'l'qn_ engineers employed on the station, Spock would only _barely _be able to pass as Romulan and go unaccosted, though any anomalous behaviour would result in immediate questioning.

"Two to beam up," Kirk told the technician, his charming smile an utter contradiction to the dull weariness Spock could feel of his emotions. "Authorisation delta-four-sigma. Captain Shakespeare, Tyler Morgan."

They boarded the pad without delay. As vulnerable as Spock felt, standing on a raised platform in clear view of the entire atrium, he couldn't resist the urge to look over at Kirk with a raised eyebrow and inquire, incredulously, "Shakespeare?"

Kirk looked at him in shock. "_Nobody _around this neck of the woods has even _heard _of the classics," he said in disbelief, moments before the transporter dissolved them in a tornado of blue particulate energy.

Heartbeats later and 112 kilometres away, they resolved on another transporter pad, on a station high above the outermost limits of Vulcan's watery-thin stratosphere. As if uninterrupted, Kirk continued, "I didn't know Vulcans even knew about Shakespeare. Too illogical. Have you actually read any?"

"The collected works, including sonnets," Spock replied promptly, stepping forward to clear the pad. _W'l'qni_, as a rule, did not know or care about Shakespeare. Individually, however, Sarek had insisted that Spock would be doing his human heritage a disservice if he was not educated on the man considered Terra's greatest writer. After a moment of consideration, Spock added, "I prefer Romeo and Juliet."

He was three metres away from the pad when he realised Kirk wasn't beside him; in fact, the human was still standing on the transporter pad despite the tech's irritated eyestalk waving. Spock turned back and raised an eyebrow.

Kirk let out a sudden laugh and bounded down from the pad. "I think I could kind of get to like you a lot," he chuckled as he strode past Spock.

Mildly bewildered by the human's abrupt affection, Spock followed him out of the transporter room.

"Romeo and Juliet? Really?" Kirk asked, when Spock had drawn even with him once more. They walked towards the lifts, keeping to one side of the hall as they passed the occasional engineer or spacer. "I'd think something like Hamlet or-- I don't know-- King Lear would be more up a Vulcan's alley. Psychological, complex-- or is it too bloody for a Vulcan? But romance? Teenage hormones? Dying for love? God, why _Romeo and Juliet_?"

Spock eyed the human coolly, displeased despite himself. He should not have expected Kirk to understand just because he was an emotional being, after all. It was almost racist to have assumed so, and yet...

"I like it," he said shortly, unwilling to expose himself again, "because I _like _it."

Kirk jerked back in shock. "Okay, Christ," he said irritably. "Don't bite my head off."

Inwardly, Spock sighed. It was a bad habit he had picked up from the _Luther King_'s crew, and of course he never did it out loud, but something about the mental expression calmed him. Kirk's psi waves had gone tight and angry, the man recoiling like a stung animal. _Humans_. So touchy. Or was that just Kirk?

"If I were to bite your head off, you'd know it," Spock retorted, but he had modified his tone somewhat, injecting a hint of arch slyness beneath the words that he knew-- hoped-- would communicate renewed openness. Kirk eyed him for a moment, wary, then relaxed marginally. His gait shifted slightly to remove the stiff distance between them, leaving their shoulders three inches closer.

At the lifts, Spock subtly held Kirk back until they could get in one that was totally unoccupied. Kirk didn't protest. The barest flicker of his eyes to Spock's told Spock that Kirk had understood his reasoning, his desire for their destination to go unnoted by anybody. The human's mind was proving to be admirably quick.

Kirk projected a faint whiff of confusion when Spock ordered their lift down to engineering, rather than up to the docks. Still, he remained silent, staring at the control panel with aimless eyes. In the few seconds of waiting as the lift _whooshed _down metres of tubing, Spock studied Kirk out of the corner of his eye.

Surely the human had noticed by now that something was not right, if not precisely what. Spock could nearly feel Kirk's brain working, thoughts whirling behind his deceptively dull-looking features. Kirk's face was pretty enough in its own way, but blunt and alien, very unlike the _w'l'qn_ standard of sharp aesthetics. Even the most subtle differences of facial geometry rendered some of his expressions completely unreadable. The overall effect-- by _w'l'qn_ standards, that was-- was one of idiocy.

Kirk's burning eyes snapped sharply to Spock when the lift stopped, giving the lie to that impression in a single heartbeat.

Spock lead the way out of the lift, choosing their direction down the strip-lit corridors with the confidence of familiarity. As was custom already, Kirk followed at his shoulder. One of the human's hands was now resting on his belt buckle and the knife concealed there. His keen eyes flashed over the workers that passed them in the other direction, tracking each one. The _w'l'qn_ engineers eyed them in return but said nothing, while workers of other species murmured to each other once they thought themselves out of earshot.

"They keep ships down here?" Kirk inquired, his voice as thin and keen as a blade.

"They keep our boarding pass down here," replied Spock, somewhat more tightly than he had intended. But Kirk's psi waves were growing steadily more agitated as they progressed farther and farther down the twisting corridors, his annoyance and building frustration pressing like a shriek at Spock's mind. Spock was forced to gather his shields up again, muting Kirk's mental energy to a dull roar.

Before Kirk could press his inquiry, Spock stopped before one of the closed doors that lined the corridor. He pressed the buzzer.

As the door slid open, a voice from inside called, "Well, come in, then!" Kirk's eyebrows shot up at the blatant irritation evident in the male voice, accented and utterly un-_w'l'qn_.

Spock stepped into the tiny room, moving aside to allow Kirk entrance. The human, however, lingered in the hallway, refusing to enter the cramped office. Kirk stared mistrustfully around the little room, taking in the endless cabinets of datasolids, the plasma-cutters and wrenches stored in amid styluses and PADDs, and the miscellaneous engine parts, in various states of disassembly, resting on every available flat surface. The lack of maneuverability offered by the narrow space seemed entirely displeasing to him.

At first it seemed the office was empty, and Spock quirked an eyebrow. Then he spotted the pair of feet sticking out from beneath a desk nearly buried beneath broken plasma couplets.

The owner of the feet wiggled out from beneath the desk to blink up at Spock in confusion. "Hello," said the man, his tone making it a question. "Can I ask what yer doing all the way down here? Only I don't remember ordering a sandwich this time, actually."

"Engineer Scott," Spock greeted.

The man's eyes widened to comical proportions. "Spock! Good lord, lad, I dinnae even recognise ye in all that! What on Earth're ye doing?"

"Wow," Kirk said, interrupting them and drawing Scott's attention for the first time. "What on Earth. I haven't heard somebody say that in _ages_."

Scott faced Kirk with a vaguely affronted air. "Well, some of us actually remember what Earth was like," he replied. "Whereas I'm guessing you, laddie, never seen the old blue maw."

"And I never wanna," Kirk concurred. "Spock-- relevance?"

"Aye," Scott said, wiping his greasy hands off on his station coveralls as he got to his feet. "What's all this about?"

"I require your advice," said Spock. "I have recently joined Captain... Shakespeare's crew." Scott glanced at Kirk quizzically. "We are on the market for a ship-- fast, well armed and armoured, reasonably large but able to be crewed by relatively few."

"Aye," Scott agreed again readily. His expression had brightened considerably. "So which one're ye stealin'?"

In the doorway, Kirk made a harsh choking sound. "Excuse me?" he hissed, stepping hurriedly into the room and shutting the door behind himself to cut them off from the hallway traffic. His eyes were fixed on Spock's face, sharp and accusatory. "Stealing? We're _stealing_ a ship? You didn't say we were _stealing _a ship."

Spock looked at Scott. "How did you come to this conclusion?" he asked, baffled.

"Well, ye are, aren't ye?" said the engineer, bewildered himself by their reactions. "_Ye _dinnae have a ship o' yer own,  and _ye_\--" He pointed his chin at Kirk-- "--must be the captain who came limpin' in on that poor battered _Rivertam-_class ship. I tell ye, lad, it's a real shame to see a good lady in that kind of shape."

Kirk's chin rose aggressively. "What about her?" he demanded.

Scott appeared unperturbed, gesturing widely. "Well, the _Rivertam_'s got some real kick for a girl o' her size, and she'll take a hell of a beatin', but ye can't just ride her hard all day and then put 'er away wet. Even if ye had good call for it, I'm sure. She's got limits. That's a ship that'll give to her very last, though-- real darling."

For some reason, Kirk appeared mollified by Scott's peculiar affection for the ship. "Yeah, well," Kirk muttered sullenly. "Let's have a drink to her death, 'cause she's done for now."

Spock eyed him in surprise. Surely there weren't _more_ like Engineer Scott, were there?

"So you're lookin' for a ship," Scott concluded, peering sympathetically at Kirk. "And if ye had the money to buy one, you'd just fix your lady up right, now wouldn't ye? Stealin' it is. Not a bad option, as far as they go. Easier than going through legal channels on this batty planet, that's for sure. Which one d'ye have your eye on?"

"That is what I require your expertise for," said Spock.

Scott looked at him in genuine shock, which gave way to delight. "_Me_? Somebody in this tin can o' a spacedock wants me opinion? On ships? Brilliant! Ye really are the high point o' me miserable days, laddie. Even if ye dinnae bring sandwiches this time." He bounded energetically towards the door, flattening Kirk against a filing cabinet and forcing Spock to jerk back rather quickly to avoid contact. In the hall, Scott looked back at them impatiently. "Well, what are we waitin' on? Let's go, lads!"

"What the fuck is going on, _Spock_?" growled Kirk quietly, as they followed Scott back to the lift. Stern-faced _w'l'qn_ engineers visibly drew back from the animated Terran, who appeared not to notice them as he trotted on. "And believe me when I say you'd better have a damn good explanation for this fuckery."

"Montgomery Scott is the most capable engineer on this station," Spock replied in an equally terse undertone. "Perhaps on the entire planet. His ability to design unorthodox solutions to problems on the spur of the moment has proven to be unmatched. He is a former officer of Starfleet, but, most importantly, now holds ties to neither the Union nor Vulcan."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "No, what's most important is me getting a _ship_. Your chances of leaving on it with me are getting slimmer by the second."

Spock lowered his voice even more, touching on a literal growl. "Then your chances of _getting_ a ship are becoming equally slim."

They were still glaring at each other when they stepped into the lift, where Scott was already waiting. Without breaking eye contact, Kirk reached out and stabbed a finger at the control panel. The lift started to rise.

Silence stretched on, broken only by the short rasp of Kirk's breath. Spock's nostrils flared.

"Well!" Scott said suddenly, bouncing on his toes. "Aren't you two an excellent command team! Picture o' harmony and trust, ye are."

Kirk turned his glower on the engineer, who gazed back, cool and utterly unaffected.

"And as for me, boyo," Scott said, "ye can stop yer frettin'. I can hear ye thinkin' it, don't think I can't! _What's he up to, eh? How's this loon going to fuck me over_? Been there meself-- days, weeks wondering who I was in danger from next. Starfleet! Not like I had a choice, though, was it? One _little_ explosion from me backyard still-- and perhaps a wee bit o' illegal modification on a couple o' shuttles, I suppose-- and next thing I know, it's Starfleet or jail. Woulda been better off in jail! Seemed like the better of the two options at the time, though."

"How's a Starshit engineer end up this side of the blockade, then?"

Scott's laugh was a harsh thing, his expression going surly and depressed for a moment. "Blew up the warp core o' me ship. Took all their training, their classes-- most of which were bullshit, by the way-- and then got chucked out on the _USS Conqueror_. Beautiful ship-- most voluptuous dilithium chambers I ever got me hands on, matter of fact. But better in pieces than doing what they wanted 'er to do."

Bland-faced once more, Scott looked back at Kirk. There was a peculiar kind of insanity in the very calmness of his eyes. "Almost managed it, too. Main reactor core was well on its way to full overload, and the port nacelle had already blown out. Damned if one o' me own damn students didn't stop it, though. Dinnae think o' that when I trained the lass."

Scott waved an arm as if dismiss his lack of foresight. "'Course they couldnae prove it was me what done it. Not _that_ careless. But that dinnae stop the captain from firin' me off the ship without even a dram or a wee morsel o' food. Marooned! Without me havin' recourse to so much as an appeal!"

Spock concluded the narrative. "Engineer Scott was fortunate that his capsule was jettisoned past the blockade and into Vulcan space, purely by accident. He landed on the surface of an outlying planet that was, coincidentally, scheduled for survey later that week. The team of Vulcan surveyors removed him from the planet, and he was granted refugee status." Spock didn't even try to conceal his disgust as he added, "On Vulcan, refugee status essentially removes all of a being's rights and renders them a prisoner of the state, unable to leave the planet. Supposedly in order to provide for the refugee, the Vulcan government gains permanent control of that being's entire life, from employment and wage to place of residence."

"Aye," Scott agreed furiously. "S'how I ended up _here_. 'Surprisingly intelligent yet crippled by his inability to do anything but wallow in emotion,' that's how they described me. I count meself lucky if I get to work a couple shifts on the transporters every week! They dinnae let me anywhere near the station mechanics, let alone the ships!"

"Oh, yeah?" said Kirk. "How are you supposed to help us _get_ a ship, then?"

It gave Scott pause. He looked to Spock quizzically. "He's got a point. What exactly am I doin' for ye, anyway?"

Spock regarded the man with amusement. "Engineer Scott," he said serenely, "if you were to tell me that you didn't know every single ship in spacedock at this very instant, I would say that you were giving me a load of bullshit."

Scott appeared as pleased by Spock's expletive as by the compliment. "True enough, laddie. True enough. Ye want me to pick ye out a gem, then?"

"Please."

Without warning, Scott's eyes went gimlet-cold, his expression like that of a hound that had just driven its prey into a corner. "Then I go with ye. Otherwise, I hope you two lads have a grand time trying to steal one on your own."

Spock's entire body went rigid, bracing for the explosion of Kirk's temper whipping against his sensitive psi points. His heart leaped with a shivering-hot burst of adrenaline. He hadn't expected Scott to suddenly make such a demand-- _threat_\-- and he didn't know how Kirk would react to it. Spock didn't dare look at the man.

And Kirk... laughed. "Blew up a battleship, did you? _Glory_-class destroyer, terror of the Fleet..." His eyes were bright and feral. "All right, Scotty, count yourself in. You're my kind of man, you crazy motherfucker."

They shook on it, Scott smiling in eerily tranquil satisfaction. Looking on, Spock wondered if the man had keyed in the overload commands to the _Conqueror_'s engines with that same smile on his face, working with serene purpose as his engineering bay disintegrated into flames around him.

"Aye, then," Scott said, his eyes calmly insane. "Live or die, laddies, let's get on with this."


	2. Chapter 2

On his tour aboard the _Luther King_, Spock had at first been utterly shocked to find that, outside of _w'l'qn_ stations, there were almost no restricted areas anywhere, on any spacedock or starbase. It had only been the first revelation on his path to realising just how willfully ignorant of the universe his people really were. _W'l'qni_, on the other hand, built their stations to be segregated (whether they called it that or not) and used an incredible amount of NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONEL BEYOND THIS POINT signs to ensure that _w'l'qn_ workers could go through their days without ever having to be subjected to the sight or sound of an illogical being.

Spock was entirely sure he would feel deprived if he were to be restricted to the company of only other _w'l'qni_ for the rest of his life. He never ceased to be fascinated at how aliens-- all aliens-- were vibrant, grimy and raw, and unashamed of any of it. Their lives were hard, and to them Spacedock 19 was nothing more than a tiny isthmus of cold, detached cleanliness on the way back out to the real world. They were the antithesis of _w'l'qn_, so far from anything that existed in Spock's cold life amongst his people that he couldn't help but fantasise about them: the way they might touch, kiss, and _fuck_, for surely they did not 'fornicate'...

In any case, the docking levels of the station were far busier and louder than the quiet, sterile engineering decks down below. The upper levels were full of people who shouted, who laughed, who ran and swore and fought each other for things as small as frustration over the unavailability of a good bottle of alcohol. It was the same contrast that played out everywhere across Free Space, anywhere that _w'l'qni_ and others crossed paths.

On Spacedock 19, careful and discriminatory planning had ensured that the only place where aliens and _w'l'qni_ could mingle were in the turbolifts. It made Spock distinctly uncomfortable, but it was unavoidable. The lifts were public and there were no other options for moving through the station.

Kirk was in the middle of a deep conversation with Scott regarding the optimal nacelle configuration on a ship when they felt the lift slow suddenly. Spock's head snapped up, looking at the deck indicator above the doors. They were only one deck above the first public level, nowhere near the top docking levels that were the unequivocal territory of non-_w'l'qn_ beings. Many _w'l'qniu_ were still forced to frequent the transporter rooms, so the probability of--

  
He dropped his mental shields without hesitation, reaching out his abnormal senses just in time to feel that the two beings standing outside the lift doors were emitting the faint, wispy psi waves of _w'l'qn_ thought.

Spock reached out, seized Kirk's arm and pivoted the man around without a word of warning. Scott's words stuttered to an awkward halt. When the door whooshed open a second later, admitting a pair of severely dressed _w'l'qn_ customs agents, Spock had his back to the door and his face buried against the side of Kirk's neck, the human's throat and shoulder hiding his features.

The pair of _w'l'qni _broke off their conversation immediately when they laid eyes on the couple entwined in the lift. Hardly daring to breathe against Kirk's neck, Spock felt the normally restrained _w'l'qn_ psi waves flare large with the force of the agents' disgust. For a moment he hoped the two would refuse to enter the lift, but then they stepped in and allowed the doors to close behind them.

Spock kept one arm wrapped tightly around Kirk's waist and slid one hand into the pocket of Kirk's jeans in order to hide the hard grip of warning he had on the man's buttock, his fingers digging in with what he knew well was painful pressure to a human. He didn't need to see Kirk's face to feel the man's angry, razor-sharp psi waves, or the tension of his rigid spine.

Into the stifled silence, Kirk gave a low, throaty chuckle. His entire body softened to something approaching relaxed. "Wow, babe, even in front of the Vulcans?" he murmured, turning his head to nuzzle Spock's ear. "You are _such _a slut."

The human's perception and cooperation was such a mixed blessing that Spock found himself in the unenviable position of being relieved and irritated at once. Unable to reply aloud for fear of his voice being recognised, he made an indistinct contented noise against Kirk's neck, breath stirring the tiny golden hairs. His real sentiments were communicated with a sharp bite to the muscle of Kirk's shoulder, out of sight of the _w'l'qni_.

Kirk hissed in a breath and let it out in another laugh. "Yeah, now I remember why I love you," he purred, pushing Spock sideways against the wall of the lift-- an even more advantageous position for hiding his face, yes, but one that also enabled Kirk to grind his hips obscenely against Spock's. Spock squeezed Kirk's ass in warning at the same time as he let a wanton, pleased moan, playing the part as well as he could.

Scott made an uncomfortable noise, doing his best to make himself invisible. One of the _w'l'qni_ cleared her throat emphatically.

Kirk ignored her. His spine had rippled tight with a frisson of pain, but out loud he groaned and wrapped his own arms around Spock. His hands travelled possessively down the line of Spock's back, blatantly flipped up the lower hem of his jacket and then squeezed _hard_. Spock jumped, inhaling a sharp breath. His shudder of pleasure as Kirk's palms groped his ass was no more faked than Kirk's bubbling arousal, hot and sticky beneath the continued grating shriek of his tension.

What was _wrong _with the human, that he knew they were in so much danger but he could get genuinely turned on at the same time? But-- wrong? Was 'wrong' the word for the glorious, intoxicating depth of Kirk's emotion and feeling? Everything Kirk did, he did with every fibre of his being, as whole-hearted and recklessly passionate as anything Spock had ever fantasised about.

Against his will, Spock felt his eyelids flickering low with pleasure. Kirk's beautiful _hands _were doing wonderful things to his buttocks, so obscenely dexterous as they squeezed and massaged that Spock felt his eartips beginning to heat with lust as much as embarrassment--

The lift came to a jarring, abrupt halt as one of the _w'l'qni_ pressed the 'stop' button. Their carriage tense and offended, the two customs agents stalked off the lift as soon as the doors slid open.

Scott leaped immediately for the control panel, pummelling the buttons until the doors swished closed again. With a cough and a grunt, Kirk disentangled himself from Spock, the two of them separating to a more appropriate distance. Spock tugged the hem of his jacket straight, breathing deep to dissipate the hot buzz beneath his skin.

Kirk leaned back against the wall, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Well, that's them taken care of, then," he announced casually, as though he had done nothing more than blow his nose. "Speaking of which, Spock-- what the _fuck_?"

Spock lifted his chin, unashamed by the amount of pleasure he had taken from actions of pure necessity. "I am a student of an engineering college, and, as such, more well known on this station than you would think. My school-sponsored interactions with this station's engineers have been not infrequent. This is how I met Engineer Scott."

"Uh... aye," Scott agreed. His eyes were still quite wide. "I suppose... ye, uh... wouldn't want people to see you like-- well, what I mean to say is... uh, lookin' like... ye do now."

Kirk tipped his head back, hooded eyes running up and down Spock's body. Refusing to be cowed, Spock lifted an eyebrow in fearless challenge as Kirk's eyes came to his face again.

"Yeah," Kirk drawled, pure appreciation in his languid voice, "I could see how that might raise some questions. Tell me, does this mean that the badass get up is your fiction, or is the innocent little school boy that you just roleplay? 'Cause I could get into that."

"O-_kay_," Scott interrupted, before Spock could reply verbally. It didn't matter-- the arrogant sneer curling the corner of his mouth had already conveyed his response to Kirk perfectly. Kirk put one hand to his mouth and made an obscene suggestion.

"OKAY," Scott repeated, more loudly, though not more than mildly discomforted. "If you lads are quite finished, we'll be gettin' on with the ship business. Honestly! A man would think ye hadn't been laid in a year. _I'm_ the one that's been locked up on this tin can without even the company of me own _species _to deteriorate in-- no offense, Spock."

"None taken."

"Right. So if you two could just keep it in your pants for long enough for us to commit a felony, that'd be lovely, thanks."

The lift slowed to a stop again, and that time the doors opened on a wide circular lounge covered only by an enormous, transparent dome. The open floor was populated by travellers who were idling away their time in spacedock, eating or attempting to sleep on some of the uncomfortable but ergonomic chairs. A couple of canteen areas recessed into the floor offered refreshments for those who didn't object to replicated plomeek soup and dry bread products.

Scott lead the way out of the lift, apparently unaffected by the view overhead. Kirk, however, couldn't hide his open-mouthed amazement, and his eyes continued to dart up to the sweep of glittering cosmos shining down through the dome, whose transparent surface acted as magnifying lens, to truly stunning effect.

In that moment, Spock felt a pang of kinship with the human, brash and offensive as he was. The first time Spock had been in the domed lounge, on an educational outing at nine years old, a sudden swelling of uncontrollable awe had very nearly humiliated him in front of his classmates. He had never been able to banish the sight of those white-banded galaxies from his memory, though he also no longer wanted to.

The lounge was located at the very top of the spacedock's main capsule, oriented so that it pointed away from the planet. The other lounge, on the opposite side of the station, looked down on _w'l'qn_'s crimson, volcano-studded surface. Looking down from the "upper" lounge, however, all that was visible were the ships.

There was no consensus in those who chose-- or was forced-- to make berth at _w'l'qn_. The station's arms hosted everything from battered cargo ships to enormous passenger liners, from a multitude of battered, mismatched personal cruisers to what few shrapnel-scarred Birds of Prey had been traded or stolen from the Klingons and had business that brought them so far into Free Space. A blizzard of service craft and shuttles swirled around the station, ferrying materials and passengers.

The overall effect was dizzying. As they approached the perimeter of the lounge and the ships came into view, Kirk seemed to have even more trouble deciding whether to keep his eyes on the stars or the starcraft.

Scott was leading the way around the circumference of the lounge. A quarter of the way around the enormous circle, he stopped. Arms crossed over his chest, he gazed fondly down at the only ship docked at the end of that particular thrust. Spock came up behind his right shoulder, looking down the long line of the thrust.

"There she is, lads," he announced. "Didn't I tell ye?"

"Oh, hell yes," Kirk whispered. His expression was predatory. There was a peculiar amount of lust in the psi waves he was emitting, a confusing storm of delight and rage and bitterness and anticipation and desire whirling around him like a hurricane. The emotions were coming too fast and hard for Spock to sort out what they might mean.

Spock's mouth was entirely too dry to speak.

The ship was of _w'l'qn_ design, brand new and cutting edge. Every sleek plane and curve of her ivory-hued metal skin glowed in the starlight, flawless and as yet unblemished by a single voyage. She was a small ship, yes, but every inch of her was designed for power. Twin nacelles arched proudly back from above her low-slung keel, creating long fluid lines that swept from her narrow nosetip to her flaring amidships and then up to the graceful swanlike nacelles.

"I cannae _wait _to get my hands on her nethers," Scott murmured, his eyes dreamy. "All bets are off then, I tell ye. Soon as we've got 'er to ourselves, we can _all _go at it as hard as we like."

Kirk's expression was more than slightly disturbed as he looked at Spock behind Scott's back. Spock only shrugged, more preoccupied with a slightly larger concern.

"That is a Vulcan ship," he said carefully, his mouth very dry. "One recently commissioned by the Science Academy, in point of fact."

"And isn't she a beauty."

"I designed her engineering bay," Spock continued, still somewhat shock-numb. It was true. He had been a part of the team hand-picked to design the Academy's newest exploration vessel, had been instrumental in her creation since the first line had been drawn on the blueprints. Once the design had been completed, however, it had been removed from the students' hands, and he'd had no more knowledge of the ship save for the occasional news item speculating on her anticipated capabilities or first destination. He hadn't realised the ship was so close to completion, however.

"Did ye, now?" said Scott, sounding impressed. "Good _show_, Spock! Of course this means I'll hold ye personally responsible for her performance."

"How close is her launch date?" asked Spock, sweeping his eyes over the ship again. He could see no flaws in her exoskeleton, no darkened sections of hull to suggest that the internal structure was incomplete. Despite himself, he was mesmerised.

"Scheduled in thirty-eight hours and countin'," Scott said, "so she'll be fully stocked and ready to launch. Ye came at _just _the right time."

Spock looked at him in alarm. On Scott's other side, Kirk's expression had sharpened, his eyes going narrow with thought.

Quietly, Kirk murmured, "Now would be a good time to tell me you have a plan, Spock."

"I have a plan," Spock said automatically, his mind whirling. His hesitation had already been shredded away. If this was to be there ship-- and truly, there could _be _no better one, now that he thought about it-- then there was work to do.

"Now tell me you're telling the truth."

Spock shot the human a superior glance. He would not have Kirk doubting his abilities, now or ever. "Of course."

"Perhaps we ought to take this somewhere else, then," Scott suggested softly. His eyes were quiet with insanity again, precisely opposite to Kirk's feverish dilithium-blue stare.

Spock wondered if the madness showed in his eyes, too. It seemed to be contagious, _exciting_, anticipation burning at his insides like a bonfire.

He _liked _it.

*

Muttering something about supplies he needed to gather, Scott had departed back to his cramped office-apartment in the station's bowels. Kirk had shortly flipped out his vidcom and started sending messages to his crew, his thumbs dashing over the keys with a dexterity that had momentarily entranced Spock. After a moment, however, Spock had jerked out of it and excused himself to find a fresher. Kirk had barely looked up as he departed.

Truly, Spock thought, it was a wonder that Kirk had survived for so long. At times he could be extraordinarily intense, intelligent and perceptive and dangerous. At others he seemed to be oblivious and entirely hormone-driven.

One level down, he spotted a public fresher and headed for it. Only once he was safely locked inside did he allow himself the indulgence of a long, frustrated sigh. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, Spock realised that the stress was showing on his face. He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair a few times, letting his mind go blank until he was thinking of nothing but the gentle movement against his scalp and the sift of silicon-smooth hairs through his fingers.

Sensory meditation was never taught to _w'l'qni_, and neither would it have been recommended by any kind of healer, no matter how well it worked for Spock. He was fortunate that he had been exposed to the experience during his travels with Robau. One of the slaves they had smuggled into Free Space had been a former priestess of Jaal, from Betazoid. She had been the only telepath that Robau had ever recovered from sexual slavery with her mind intact. Obviously the technique had much to recommend it.

Sufficiently calmed, Spock opened his eyes once more and studied his reflection in the mirror. Clearly the cosmetics were no longer a good idea. Attention was not what he sought to attract. The bronzer on one cheek had been smudged, probably against the side of Kirk's neck, and his lipstick was nothing more than a faded green rim at the edges of his lips.

Spock searched in his pocket for a moment, emerging with a credit chip that he swiped beneath the tiny reader to one side of the sink basin. Ordinarily, waving his hands by the sensor would activate dry sonics within the space of the basin. For the price of an eighth-credit, however, he could have a litre of water: precious enough on a desert planet like _w'l'qn_, but even more expensive on an orbital station. However, Spock knew from experience that sonics would do little save smear his makeup, even if he put his face into the basin.

As water gushed into the basin, Spock let his fingertips dangle into the cool liquid while considering his reflection in the mirror. When it stopped, he scooped up a handful of water and leaned down, beginning to carefully wash his face off without spilling a drop. The water could still be recycled after he was finished with it, after all.

If Spock had thought that he would be conducting the theft of a starship that very night, he would not have worn his leathers. They were too obtrusive, particularly on a vulcanoid. The jacket and boots, perhaps, as he would have wanted to take them from _w'l'qn_ with him, but not the pants. Their only real purpose lay in the psychological effect that tight leather pants had on most humanoids. Otherwise, he could have easily worn more durable and less remarkable clothing.

Well. He would adapt. That seemed to the the order of the night, anyway. Adaptation to problems.

_Such as Kirk_, Spock reflected, rubbing his fingertips in small circles to loosen his eye shadow. Kirk was a problem. Spock hadn't been expecting for Scott to recommend a ship as well publicised and no doubt well guarded as the Science Academy's brand new ship, but that was something that could be easily handled. All the modification required to his plans was an increase in speed of approximately 16.7 minutes, for where the station's _w'l'qn_ guards might not react with utmost urgency to the unauthorised movement of a foreigner's ship, they would move instantly if anything untoward happened to the Academy vessel. Spock wouldn't be surprised if that entire arm of the station was sealed off completely, in point of fact.

Kirk, however, was far less simple. He was unpredictable-- volatile, even. Dangerous, as much to himself as to the others around him.

Kirk's presence-- and Pike's absence-- left Spock with very few options. It was a great disappointment that Christopher Pike was no longer captain of the _Number One_, and for more reasons than that Spock's initial plan had hinged on this assumption. Robau had not at all been a man given to praise, and yet he had spoken of Pike in glowing terms. _Stable. Calm. Level-headed. Cool in a crisis_. All in all, a captain that Spock had genuinely been anxious to serve under, even moreso than Robau. Pike's _Number One_ was the most infamous-- and therefore most successful-- free ship on the underground railroad. After Spock had returned to _w'l'qn_, newly disillusioned and loathing the sight of every safe, peaceful, ignorant person around him, the thought of joining Pike's crew had been the only bright spot on his horizon for _months_.

Right from the start, Spock's plan had been to eliminate Kirk. Splashing more water on his face, Spock considered the idea carefully before discarding it. If he were to remove both of the _Number One_'s highest ranking officers, he would likely lose the crew as well, and there was no way that he and Engineer Scott could steal a ship alone, let alone crew it even if they did escape. Besides, that was rather beside the point of working with an experienced slave-smuggling crew.

So Kirk had to stay. _But not as captain_, Spock thought. _Clearly_.

Clearly he was unqualified. Clearly he was unfit. Clearly he would endanger them all.

And Kirk's temper would not allow Spock to demote him. So he would suffice as a first officer, though Spock would far rather put the man in a position where he had less authority to do harm-- as an engineer, perhaps. He had seemed knowledgeable enough in conversation with Scott, and the two had gotten along rather well.

Then again, perhaps putting Kirk with Scott wasn't the best idea. Irrelevant, in any case.

Kirk as first officer. Spock thought about it as he used the hem of his shirt to wipe the last traces of eye liner from his skin.

It would take a significant amount of work to keep Kirk from bucking his authority. No doubt the man would be initially unwilling to accept his position, given the fact that he had already taken the captaincy for granted. But Spock was sure he could... handle it.

Spock's mouth quirked at the prospect. Handling Kirk had never yet been a hardship, and nor, he suspected, would it be a hardship even when Kirk was at his most unreasonable. Spock had nothing to fear from the human's meagre strength, and he would quickly learn enough about Kirk's martial skills to be prepared for them. The thought of subduing an angry, violent Kirk and bringing the man-- willingly-- to his knees before Spock was...

Spock shuddered.

Thrilling.

Then he forced himself to put aside his momentary titillation. There was a time for allowing emotions to influence his choices-- and when it was that time, Spock revelled in it so much that he nearly embarrassed _himself_\-- but now was not it. Now he had to logical, and if not entirely _w'l'qn_, then at least possessing all of a _w'l'qn_'s good qualities.

With Kirk as his first officer, the crew would be content to stay on. Kirk's impulsiveness could be controlled, overruled by Spock's calm, while his not inconsiderable experience would supplement Spock's inexperience. In time, Spock was sure they could be an excellent team. Kirk could-- would-- learn restraint.

It was not a good plan. A good plan would have involved being Christopher Pike's first officer or navigator, as Spock _truly _had no desire to actually run a ship. He did not want to lead, only to follow closely and give his input. It was, however, the best plan he had left.

But Kirk posed a problem before he even got a chance to put it into action.

Spock had rolled up the hem of his shirt and was cleaning dried blood away from the wound on his abdomen when the lock on the fresher door gave a sizzling crackle and unexpectedly slid open.

Affronted, Spock pushed down his shirt and spun to face the door. "Excuse m--"

"Excuse you," said Kirk, slipping into the tiny chamber and buzzing the door shut behind him again. There was a piece of still-smoking wire in his hand, which he tossed carelessly onto the floor. Spock stared at him, thrown.

Leaning against the closed door with a charming smile, Kirk said pleasantly, "So I thought we ought to have a little chat."

The effect of Kirk's smile was eerie, Spock had to admit, particularly in counterpoint to the man's slow smouldering psi waves. Nonetheless, he was not intimidated. Kirk was not a threat. It was as good a time as any to start adjusting Kirk to the idea that he wasn't going to control Spock.

"I had come to a similar conclusion," Spock agreed calmly. He turned back to the basin and splashed a little more water on his face, wiping away traces of shimmer from his hairline that he had missed.

"And I figure, no time like the present, right? Do you mind if we talk now? Of course not. We'll talk now."

"No," said Spock.

"I'm sorry?"

He didn't look at Kirk. "I said no," he repeated, an obvious dismissive tone in his voice. "I will speak with you later."

"Oh." For a moment, the surprise in Kirk's voice made Spock think that the human was about to obey. Then, smiling, Kirk said, "Well, that's okay. Because really when I said 'we'll talk', what I meant was, 'I'll talk'."

"No," Spock repeated. "You may leave now, Mr Kirk."

Kirk's smile was showing his teeth. "I don't think you fucking heard me," he said slowly, enunciating each word with dangerous clarity. In the mirror, Spock saw him push off the door and begin to saunter over. "_I'm_ talking now. And I'm talking _now_."

Spock turned to face Kirk, his expression hard. "If you have a problem taking orders, Mr Kirk, then we may be in for a needlessly difficult--"

He ducked, and the fist aimed at his face went sailing overhead. Kirk's stance was tight, however, and he hadn't overextended himself, so when Spock attempted to counter with a blow to the stomach, Kirk was able to grab Spock's fist, snap his knee up and trap Spock's wrist against it. Only a twisting wrench backwards saved Spock's forearm from the elbow Kirk had intended to bring smashing down upon it.

Kirk wasn't breathing hard at all, but his mental energy had become even more agitated. "Believe me, _Mr _Spock," he bit out, "the difficulty is going to be all yours if you don't shut the fuck up and let me talk."

"_No_," Spock said again, hoping for the sake of his patience that Kirk would learn the meaning of the word soon.

He didn't know who lunged first. It was probably him.

Spock's hand hissed past Kirk's left ear and Kirk's fist drove into one of his kidneys. The only thing that kept Spock standing was the fact that he had remembered Kirk's familiarity with the crippling move, and had clenched his abdominal muscles just before impact. Still, it was a surprisingly painful blow... for a human.

Body to body, Kirk had lost what little advantage he might have had. Spock brought his arm back and casually cuffed Kirk across the head. Kirk's entire body snapped to the side. Spock was considerate enough to shove his palm between Kirk's face and the wall before the man's nose and teeth smashed against the tile.

Spock began to shake at the horrible sense-memory echo of Kirk's fragile body crumpling beneath his hand. Still, he forced back his revulsion, the self-loathing churning in the pit of his stomach, and held up the charade. His resolve could _not _break before he had even begun to discipline Kirk. Violence couldn't be _that _hard-- humans did it all the time.

"I do not enjoy this, Mr Kirk," he said, leaning down to take a fistful of Kirk's jacket and haul him up from his crumpled slump against the base of the wall. Spock pulled the concealed dagger from Kirk's belt buckle and threw it into the toilet across the room, out of reach. Garish red blood was leaking from between Kirk's lips, bubbling as he coughed wetly for breath. "Please be reasonable."

"No," Kirk slurred, his head lolling back. "Actually, I think you-- enjoy this-- a lot more than you're willing to admit. Coward. S'the second time you've-- had me-- up against a wall." He bared his teeth in a gory smile. "And you haven't even _had _me yet."

"I cannot fathom why you would continue to antagoni--"

White agony flared up Spock's spine, compounded by the sudden scream of emotion blaring straight into his skull as Kirk's skin came into contact with his. With a vicious snarl, Kirk dug his nails deeper into the cut on Spock's side, ripping the scabbed wound open again. Spock's nerveless fingers lost purchase on Kirk's jacket and he staggered backwards.

He dodged Kirk's first punch, and the second, still reeling in pain. Kirk was talking the whole while, spitting blood and words between blows.

"See, I thought we could-- have this conversation in private-- so I wouldn't have to _embarrass _you in front of the whole--"

Kirk twisted sideways and danced backwards, barely avoiding the incapacitating strike of Spock's scything fingers. He grinned mirthlessly, blocking the fresher's only egress with his fists raised before him-- in a textbook Klingon grappling stance.

Spock lowered his probability of ending the incident without significant injury to 86.5%.

"--whole _crew_. Bad policy to undermine a guy's authority in front of everybody else." He sneered and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, cleaning up puddles in a monsoon. The neck of his shirt was stained red, red all down his chin and jaw and beautiful saline-slick throat. And that-- _Spock _had done that. "Breeds resentment, you know."

Blood was leaking hot and wet over the hand Spock had pressed to his wound. The torn skin seared with every breath he took, flaring bright and blinding on each inhalation. The smothering press of Kirk's psi waves seemed amplified in the tiny room, echoing against the tiles like the rasp of his harsh respiration.

"Thank you for the advice," Spock said, through the roaring in his ears, and kept his voice very even. "I will be sure to take it into consideration when I must discipline you."

"Yeah, see, that? No. Fuck no. You're not hearing me ye-- _hurk_!"

Spock had crossed the room in two long strides, slamming Kirk back into the door with a fist buried in his stomach. Kirk's skull bounced against the door, his eyes rolling back so far that Spock's heart leaped in horror--

\--and then Kirk's head snapped forward and he spat blood into Spock's eyes.

A booted foot drove into his left kneecap from the side, and Spock knew as he went down that he wouldn't be getting up again. Through lashes clotted with blood and saliva, he watched as if in a daze as Kirk's open palm soared towards his head. When the heel of Kirk's hand slammed into his jaw, Spock let himself reel sideways without resisting in order to minimise the damage as much as possible. The hand that took a fistful of his hair and shoved hard was almost welcome: when Spock's skull impacted the wall, much of the pain seemed to disappear.

Much of everything seemed to disappear.

"You have a hearing problem, Mr Spock," Kirk informed him, from very far away. "I hope it gets better very, very soon. Otherwise we could have-- well, _you _could have trouble. But, seeing as you're being such a good boy right now, we can have our little chat."

He shook Spock's head a bit as if to make sure that he was paying attention. Spock felt his head wobble loosely, and let it. He was more focused on making sure that he was still remembering to breathe. But at the same time, all he could think was _how strange _it was that Kirk had slammed his head against the tiles with _just _enough force to stun him, stopping shy of the threshold that would break bone or rupture brain tissue. Calculations were slipping through his mental fingers, half grasped and never finished. Had Kirk _calculated _that blow as precisely as it seemed he had?

"You think I didn't notice what you were doing all night, Spock? That whole thing where you were stringing me along bit by bit, not giving me any info, refusing to tell me where we were going or what was gonna happen when we got there-- bullshit. Bull. _Shit_. Not gonna fly, Spock. Not with me."

Coughing a little to clear his chest, Spock fumbled weakly at Kirk's thigh, his fingers scrabbling over folds in the soft, worn denim. The places where Kirk's knuckles brushed his scalp were prickling, white points of contact sending horrible spikes of Kirk's ugly anger into his mind. It _hurt_, more than the dull throbbing where his head had smacked against the tile. Spock tried to open his mouth and tell Kirk so, but his tongue wasn't working. He only managed an indistinct groan.

"No more of this coy shit. You level with me-- always. You tell me the truth-- always. You _never _keep important info from me-- al-fucking-ways." Very gently, Kirk punctuated each point by knocking his head against the wall again. Spock growled in protest, starting to gather himself together from the muddle of pain and psi exposure.

The next time Kirk tried to push his head into the wall, Spock jerked back against the pressure. Hissing for breath between clenched teeth, he seized a fistful of Kirk's jacket and marshalled his limbs, staggering to his feet in an awkward, ungainly surge. Kirk caught him when he pitched forward, bearing Spock back against the wall with equal measures of tenderness and brutality.

"You got it?" Kirk asked, tugging Spock's head back by his hair to stare into his eyes.

Spock glowered down, as free with expressing his rage as he could be. He was six inches taller than Kirk, and for some absurd reason that infuriated him. But in the horrible moments that it had taken him to push back the pain, he had grasped logic once more, hard and detached beneath the ragged skein of emotions hanging in tatters around him.

Slowly, Spock let out a long breath but said nothing, let alone the agreement Kirk wanted to hear. He let himself settle back against the wall, submitting sullenly to Kirk's grip, features arranged into an expression of surly defiance.

Kirk's eyes burned up at him, ferocity unabated, still awaiting confirmation. Spock glared back, stubbornly silent, and slouched down the wall... just a bit more. As if by accident, his hips pushed against Kirk's-- and the intensity in the human's eyes sharpened in another direction entirely.

Kirk sucked in a sharp breath, his fist tightening in Spock's hair. "Bastard," he said hoarsely, and shoved back hard against Spock.

Spock grimaced in protest at the pull on his scalp. He didn't have to fake the pain, just a gross inability to conceal it. And after that, all it took was to fake a tremble of his lip when he dragged in a single shuddering breath.

Kirk smashed their mouths together, teeth grating against Spock's. Even with Spock slouching, he was forced onto his toes to bring their faces level. Utterly unable to reciprocate to the lips grinding frantically against his (and what did humans find _pleasurable _about _that_?), Spock let out a muffled moan and permitted Kirk to savage his mouth at will. Arousal seared through him, all Kirk's and none his own. But good enough.

Their noses bumped together hard, jarring. Spock started to take short breaths, letting them hitch in his throat when he learned that the tiny animal sounds made Kirk's lust spike. Kirk's chilly mouth moved away from his mouth, teeth scraping down his jaw, his throat, biting frantically, possessed with the need to mark and own and _rut_. So predictable. So _easy_.

As if suffering equivalent lack of control, Spock whined loudly and put his arms around Kirk, dragging their bodies close. Kirk swore and bit his neck, rocking his hips up against Spock's.

"Been waiting-- for this-- all fucking _night_," Kirk gasped between panting gasps. He was radiating desperation, all but falling apart at the seams.

"Yes, Mr Kirk?" breathed Spock, giving the human's ass a squeeze. Kirk shoved himself up on tiptoe, burying his face against Spock's shoulder with a hoarse cry. "Waiting for me to do _this_?" With his other hand, he reached down between their bodies and cupped the hardness pushing at the crotch of Kirk's jeans. The button and zip were easy to flick open.

"Is this what you require, perhaps?"

"Fucking tease," Kirk hissed. "D-don't fucking-- ohhh, _fuck_, yes, God, yes."

Spock slid his palm down Kirk's length again, trying not to show how uncertain he was about it. Kirk didn't seem to mind, moaning wantonly into his shoulder, but Spock remembered vividly how fragile humans were. His dry palm dragged uncomfortably against the alien genitalia, which lacked the lubricant Spock had been expecting. And he was kissing-- he was _kissing _Kirk's--

Blindly, Kirk grabbed Spock's hand, dragged it up and spat. A glob of saliva spattered his palm, making Spock's eyes widen in utter shock. He was still reeling at the obscenity of it when Kirk shoved his hand back down, directing it to his crotch. Kirk didn't seem to have a problem with his momentary inaction, thrusting his penis against Spock's slippery palm.

And Spock felt the first blush of real arousal spread through him. He gasped out loud, eyes darting in search of escape. This wasn't supposed to _happen_, not to _him_, and yet--

Shocks of pleasure jolted up his arm, sparked out with every wet slide of Kirk's penis against his palm. The ridge bumped over the pads of his fingers, exotic and alien. All of Kirk's bare skin was flushing red as volcanic sand, raw and aroused, but at the same time even the swollen head of his nearly purple cock felt too _cool_, sending shivers down Spock's back. Blood was pounding in his ears, drowning out everything but the _thud _of his own heartbeat and the ceaseless blare of Kirk's mental energy.

"Fuck," Spock gasped without thinking, the word very nearly not his own, "fuck fucking fuck _fuck_."

Kirk's eyes gleamed, his lashes sticking in wet triangles. "Like this, Spock?" he demanded breathlessly, curling his hand tighter around Spock's and thrusting faster through his caged fingers. Spock couldn't formulate a reply, not even a noise, his mouth working soundlessly as his eyes fluttered shut. Kirk's calluses scraped the back of his hand, saliva slurping through Spock's fingers while Kirk fucked his hand.

"Tell me you want it, Mr Spock," Kirk was murmuring up close to his ear, lips and breath wet against the lobe. The lewd swipe of a tongue along his eartip made Spock's entire body shudder, every oversensitive nerve in him screaming. "Say yes, just tell me yes, baby, just say yes..."

His jaw trembling with the force that it took to hold back the animal cries pressing up his throat, Spock could barely push out, "Yes, yes, _yes_," not even knowing what he was agreeing to. He was too lost in the the maelstrom of emotion and feeling pouring through him, both Kirk's and his own, blissful, glorious, consuming--

"And see, Spock, this is why you lose," Kirk announced harshly, his suddenly cold voice cutting through the haze. Spock's eyes jolted open halfway, tracking drunkenly across the ceiling, unable to focus. Before he could process the words, Kirk had moved-- hooked an ankle around the back of his already injured knee-- and Spock collapsed to his knees on the floor as though his joints had been slashed.

Looming above him, Kirk's face was flushed red and dripping sweat, but his eyes snapped with blue fire. There was not a trace of the drunk lust that had been showing in them only moments before. Stunned, Spock was too slow to avoid the hand that sank into his hair and twisted, dragging him up on his knees just that inch higher.

"I have _never _seen another Vulcan react to touch the way you do," Kirk began, his voice hard. He was stroking his cock with his free hand, though the grim expression on his face suggested he might as well have been enduring torture. "And I have no idea why you do it, but it's fucking _gorgeous_. Problem is though, you get _lost _in it, Spock. You get into the feeling of my skin and my breath and my cock and you stop thinking. Completely."

Spock opened his mouth to protest, words on the very tip of his tongue-- and they vanished immediately when Kirk slid his hand out of Spock's hair and down onto the bare nape of his neck. Spock nearly convulsed as Kirk's pleasure surged through him like lightning, his head snapping backwards so far that he banged it on the wall.

"And for some-- fucking-- reason," Kirk contined, now jerking his cock so hard that he could only get out words between strokes, "you seem to think-- that it's safe to do it-- when-- you're-- around-- _me_."

He spat the last word, punctuating it with a flick of his fingers at the end of the stroke that spattered a bead of precum on Spock's face. Spock jerked back, startled, reduced to reflexive animal reactions by the storm pounding hard against his temples.

A droplet of sweat slid down Kirk's face, extravagant and wasteful. His lips were pressed together so hard that they had gone bloodless white, a stark slash across his face. He was still jerking his cock furiously, almost too fast, not caring that he was chafing himself raw.

"So whatever it is, Spock-- get over it. Learn to deal with it, or don't start at all. Because if I can't fucking trust you to be capable _all _the time, then you're no use to me. Now make up your _mind_."

The words were like a slap across the face.

Spock _wasn't_ capable.

He wasn't even functional.

Shame flooded over him. Horrified by his own uncontrollable shaking, Spock fumbled to get out something, any kind of explanation for his disgraceful behaviour, but all he managed to choke was, "Don't-- I-- just-- I can't think when--"

Kirk bared his teeth in a snarl. "I'm not asking for a calculated probability, Spock! Yes or no! Take a fucking guess if you have to!"

"I c-can't--"

Kirk's hand stopped moving abruptly. A nearly imperceptible tremble shook his hand that gripped his cock tightly at the base. His face was tight with strain, hips jerking in barely restrained need.

"Yes or no," Kirk whispered hoarsely, and very suddenly Spock knew that they were no longer talking about his ability to maintain self-control. On his knees in front of Kirk, Spock stared up at him, transfixed. The human's psi waves were keening an almost pure note of desperation.

Everything in him had been broken down, a lifetime's worth of controls and training crushed to pieces in mere _moments _by Kirk, and there was nothing left inside Spock to stop him from accepting the answer when it came to him, raw and stripped and visceral. But he couldn't _say _it, couldn't make his mouth work in the piercing blade of Kirk's animalistically intense stare.

Mute, the only thing he could do was tip back his face and shut his eyes, squeezing the world away.

With a cry of broken relief, Kirk slammed a hand into the wall to support himself as he came, furiously jerking out a long delayed release onto Spock's upturned face. Unable to see what to expect, Spock jolted when the semen splashed onto his skin but didn't flinch away from being marked. Claimed.

Dominated.

And in that moment, he was no longer Spock. He was no longer responsible, no longer accountable for anything, let alone his own actions, and therefore he could fail at nothing. His control had been relinquished and abandoned in the dust. However unwisely-- and it was even impossible for him to decide the wisdom of his actions-- he had given the entirety of himself to Kirk, to care for or use or break or kill as Spock swayed on his knees with his eyes shut, lost in the roaring blackness that was surrender.

Absolution of guilt. Relief from liability. Complete, still-water serenity in knowing that _it could not be his fault_ any longer.

He. Was. Not. Responsible.

Not responsible.

Not--

There was a sudden vacuum of thought at the apex of Kirk's orgasm, emptiness ringing against Spock's psi points-- and then the mental onslaught came roaring back, twice as hard and powerful for its momentary absence. Spock felt himself cry out and didn't know what he said.

Above him, Kirk was gasping and swearing with relief. Blind with need, suddenly pushed over the edge by his acceptance of complete submission, Spock clawed at Kirk's thighs and stomach until Kirk went to his knees, reaching out for him. Every bit the animal that had been exposed at his core, Spock pushed Kirk back to the floor and rolled on top of him, hands digging deep purple bruises into Kirk's shoulders. His hips ground down savagely-- once-- twice--

*

When he came to again, Spock was lying on his back. Kirk was draped over him, eyes fixed unblinking on Spock's face and awaiting his return to consciousness even though he was still trembling violently with his own aftershocks.

Flat on his back on the floor, winded and filthy and shattered, Spock could barely keep his eyes open to meet Kirk's blue stare. Swallowing hard, the words that came out of his suddenly dry throat were a pathetic croak. "All I want to do is help people."

For a long time, Kirk said nothing, just rested his forehead against Spock's heaving chest and let himself gasp and pant until he had stopped shaking. His sweat-sticky body dried cool against Spock's skin, a thin film of saline rubbing off wherever their bare skin touched. Then, moving like his joints were wrapped in barbed wire, Kirk dragged himself to his hands and knees. Matted hair clung to his forehead as he looked down at Spock from above.

"I know," he rasped, dried blood flaking off his lips. "And I just want to protect my ship and my crew. You were trying to take that from me. You were threatening that. Nobody-- _nobody _threatens my crew. Nobody."

Very slowly, Spock nodded once.

With a groan, Kirk pushed himself to one side and got to his feet. Numbly, Spock watched him stretch an arm behind his back, then over his head, garnering a very audible _pop_.

"First officer's position is open," Kirk said simply. He didn't look at Spock.

After a moment, Spock wetted his lips enough to speak. He tasted bitterness and blood on the tip of his tongue. "I believe that would be satisfactory," he replied, in the same voice he might have used sitting across the table from a _w'l'qn_ interviewer rather than laying fucked and covered in semen on the cold floor of a spacedock fresher. And it was not a lie, neither the tone nor his statement.

There was nothing objectionable about Kirk's captaincy, about his ability to fight for the ship or anything he needed to protect. That had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. All of Spock's concerns had been satisfied.

And apparently, impossibly, Kirk was still willing to give him a chance.

Kirk zipped his pants back up, leaned over the sink and carelessly sloshed water onto his face. It spattered onto the floor, ran down his chin in pink rivulets that he wiped away with the back of his hand, leaving more than half of the blood still crusted around his nostrils and mouth. "Good," he said. "See you in the lounge in ten, Commander Spock."


	3. Chapter 3

In a healthy, alert _w'l'qn_ brain working as hard as it could, there were an average of two hundred and seventy-five thousand synapses firing per second. Scientific studies had shown that _w'l'qni_ could actively follow up to three lines of separate thought simultaneously, and as many as five with mental training.

There were a great deal of things going through Spock's mind as he slowly picked himself up off the floor of the fresher. Unfortunately, reciting statistics to himself only took up one line of thought. It was the only clear, logical line in his mind.

_8.8 minutes_, he forced himself to think. Rolling onto his knees, he accidentally placed one hand in a puddle of cold water beneath the sink basin. His hand skidded out from beneath him, nearly sending Spock face-first into the base of the sink. He barely caught himself in time, his already abused skull complaining with a dull flare of white pain behind his eyes. Spock held still for a moment, taking deep, deliberate breaths, and then more cautiously got to his feet.

_One decimal place introduces a lack of certainty. One decimal place is unacceptable_. He recalculated, fastidiously wiping his wet palm off on his shirt: the water on the floor was swirled red with traces of Kirk's blood. His shirt was almost equally filthy, perhaps more so, but at least it was mostly stained with Spock's own bodily fluids. _8.661 minutes_.

Heavy-eyed, Spock stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. Though the frictionless strands of his hair had fallen back into their customary neat cut, his mouth bore marks of abuse, swollen and green. Kirk's bloody saliva had dried onto his skin, leaving streaks of red clotted in his eyelashes and brows. There was semen on his face, in his hair.

He didn't recognise himself.

_8.237 minutes_.

Mechanically, Spock dipped his hands into the basin of polluted water and splashed his face. He didn't notice-- didn't care-- when water spilled onto the floor and down the front of his shirt.

_What have I done?_

7.945 minutes.

What have I become_?_

7.553 minutes.

How has this happened?

6.229 minutes.

What is wrong_ with me?_

5.297 minutes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Spock asked his reflection numbly. The human curse slipped out unintentionally. In the mirror, water dripped down his face, sliding from his desert-sleek impervious skin without leaving a trace of moisture behind. The hydroreceptors in his nostrils tingled, absorbing as much water as they could from the saturated air. Hydration eased the headache pounding in his skull, but not enough.

"_Kro'el n'ts c'thia_," he muttered to the broken reflection that looked back at him from the cloudy water. They were his father's words. The very fact that Spock needed to tell himself he was not being logical was... not logical. "_Kro'el tasa_."

_2.456 minutes._

From where he had been standing numbly over the basin, swaying slightly, Spock lifted his eyes to the mirror once more.

No. He was not chaotic, he was... free. All he wanted was freedom. Kirk was chaotic. Kirk was chaos itself.

And Spock could-- would-- handle that.

What had happened in that tiny fresher-- whatever _it_ was that had happened, Spock didn't know, and couldn't think about it without his mind shying away in horror-- would stay there.

_1.771 minutes_.

He looked presentable once more, if still somewhat wild in the green rims around his eyes. In his mind, Spock shunted the chaos aside, sweeping questions and emotions clear, clawing them down beneath barriers and controls that he knew would crack the moment he laid eyes on Kirk once more, felt that piercing angry psi scream at the back of his mind again. He could feel panic roiling beneath the surface, still out of control enough that adrenaline was seeping into his veins like a delicious poison. But it was all he could do.

"I am S'chn T'gai Spock," he said aloud, addressing his reflection, and used Standard. It was time to sunder the last of his connections to _w'l'qn_, to shed the last remnants of the quiet persona who dutifully attended college, never dreamed, never rebelled, and never lifted his eyes to the stars. The prospect of that sundering, which Spock was now hurtling towards at a breakneck speed, nearly made everything inside of him want to shut down and go someplace quiet until sanity returned to his life.

But no-- not now. Not ever. His people had lived 250 years in isolation, their heads willfully turned away from what lay beyond their planet because it was too much to deal with. He would not be one of them any longer.

"I am not a Vulcan. I am a pirate, and I am about to steal a ship, and there is nothing anybody can do to stop this."

_0.648 minutes_.

He wasn't ready.

*

Spock entered the upper lounge eleven seconds late. Slightly breathless, he looked around the area for a large group of people, but when he laid eyes on Kirk, the man was alone. He was sitting sprawled back in a chair on the other side of the lounge, his eyes hooded and low as he looked down on the pristine figure of the VSA ship hovering motionless in spacedock.

Spock approached Kirk from behind. Kirk's psi waves rippled in awareness, but he didn't move. Spock silently took a seat three chairs away.

"Where is your crew?"

"Coming," Kirk grunted. "I just wanted you here a bit early so that I could hear this plan of yours, and if it sucks, I'll have time to make up a better one before everybody gets here."

"It doesn't _suck_," snapped Spock, letting himself slip into the human slang. As exhausted as he was, it was easier than trying to keep track of all of the more exact words, given Standard's annoyingly flagrant disregard for consistent etymological rules. "It has a low chance of success, but it's the best plan there is."

"Give it to me."

For a wild moment, Spock wished he had the comfort of a diagram, a holoboard, a laser pointer-- as though he were making a presentation in class. He shoved the thought away viciously.

"There's an 86.7 percent chance that they've sealed the ship's docking thrust completely. We'll have to break into the station's mainframe and open the security checkpoint at the entrance of the thrust, then seal it behind us to keep security out. Then, depending on how well we're able to seal the thrust, we'll have anywhere from 105 seconds to 6 minutes and 17 seconds to board the ship. Once aboard the ship, we'll have to disengage her from the thrust without clearance and jump to warp immediately."

Kirk digested it all for a moment. "So," he said at last, "what you're saying is that we're going to walk onto the ship and take it."

"Yeah-- yes. Precisely." Saying 'precisely' didn't make his actual words any more precise. And Kirk's interpretation was actually as far from precise as it could be. Spock inwardly cringed at the mess of his speech.

"Okay," Kirk said simply. "Let's get on with this, then."

"Wait," interrupted Spock, startled. Kirk's psi waves flared with harsh impatience, scratching abrasively over his shields. Spock tried to ignore the burst of his own annoyance that wanted to shoot up in response. "We can't possibly just go _do _it. There are a number of concerns you haven't consid--"

"Like what?" demanded Kirk. "Hacking the mainframe shouldn't be a problem, if Scott's as good as you say he is, and I've got a genius or two on my crew if he's not. We'll have-- what, about forty-five seconds to disengage from the magnalocks before the security patrols get there? If nothing works at the thrust entrance, then plan B: we hit the transporter rooms, barricade ourselves inside and beam up to the ship, which would take one tech on the controls, one tech shipboard, and somebody else counteracting all the security commands they'll be trying to use to shut down the transporter. My team knows their places in this drill. And seeing as this ship looks like brand fucking new prototype design, I'm guessing any tampering with her security's gonna kick up a huge fuss, so they'll start rolling out the guns the second we touch the checkpoint. If Vulcan security's as good as they say it is, we'll have about 15 seconds after disengaging to hit warp before cruisers from planetside arrive. Anything else?"

Spock was stunned. Kirk's knowledge of _w'l'qn_ security protocols far exceeded what he had expected, even accounting for the man's intelligence. Weren't those protocols supposed to _be private_? It had taken Spock two months of observation and background research to accurately calculate the timing Kirk had so flippantly estimated.

"That's... pretty much it," he said lamely. The human phrase was pathetic.

"So let's _go_," Kirk said impatiently, turning away from him. "Crew's here."

He headed off across the lounge, moving to intercept the large group that had just entered from one of the turbo lifts. Spock, on the other hand, sank down into his chair and shoved his hands into his hair, frustrated and close to collapse yet again. He shut his eyes so tightly that lights burst behind his eyelids. Trying to block out the panic-- the world-- _everything_\-- he gulped for air, feeling his breaths judder uncontrollably on the inhale. Hands fisted, his nails bit into his palms.

_God fucking _damn _you, James Tiberius Kirk. May your wells run dry and your weapons all rust. May the sands take your bones and the slavers take your wife, should god forbid you ever have one. How could you break me down like this _now?

At that very moment, the background rumble of Kirk's psi energy spiked into a furious shriek. Spock winced. Trembling slightly, he shoved himself to his feet and went unsteadily in the direction Kirk had gone, wondering what else had gone wrong.

Kirk was standing white-lipped and stiff when Spock arrived, his rigid expression clearly a failed attempt to hide his anger. The three people gathered around him were either looking at the floor or someplace distantly elsewhere, all of them too exhausted to react to their captain's ire. Spock hung back several metres, not wanting to announce himself at such an inopportune time.

"What now, Jim?" demanded a man, the oldest one there. He stank of alcohol, more than just the open bottle of _k'vass_ dangling from one hand. "We've got no engineers, no first officer, and no goddamn _ship_. The hell'd you call us up for?"

"We've got a ship," Kirk snapped. "Or we will in a half hour, anyway. And I've _got _a first and a chief engineer."

"McKenna's not coming back," said another man tiredly. "And I'm not going to be your first, Jim. I couldn't do it. Sir."

Unlike the anonymous older man, Spock knew the second one from his dossier: Hikaru Sulu, 19, a one-time resident of Earth's famous recluse colony Fenikkusu, on the remnants of what had once been Japan before almost the entire island chain had been destroyed by nuclear bombs during World War III. Sulu's dossier listed him as an expert in archaic weapons and multiple Terran martial arts styles, with supposed expertise in astrophysics that could not be accounted for by any university degree. His talent as a pilot was undoubtable, given the number of battles he had flown the _Number One_ through. He was wanted in the Union for much the same thefts and terrorist activities as Kirk, but with so many more charges of assault and murder of Union officers that the dossier had listed Sulu's bounty as only applicable after his death. The Union did not want to face this man alive in any way, shape or form, and that told Spock more than any list of skills or crimes.

"McKenna can go fuck himself," growled Kirk. "If he's not man enough to quit to my face, then I don't want him on board my ship. Lorenson and Standish too. And Broma? I never liked her anyway, shifty bitch."

"Which brings us back to the problem of us having a crew that consists of nerds and killers but no people who can make a ship _not crash and burn_."

Kirk's patience was fast running out. "Bones, you're not helping. I have a ship, I have a chief engineer--"

"But no other engineers--"

"--and I _have a first_, and we have a _plan_."

"Oh, good," the man called Bones muttered sardonically, probably far more loudly than he had intended, and took a long gulp from his bottle. He was already extremely drunk, wobbling on his feet. "He's got a _plan_."

"Bones, sit down," Kirk said through gritted teeth.

"'Scuse me, _I'm_ a doctor," retorted 'Bones' loudly. "_I_ don't need to sit down. You sit down."

"Doctor McCoy, I think you should sit down," interjected another voice. All heads, including Spock's, turned to the tall dark-skinned woman striding up to the group. "You can't be lecturing us about safety when you're liable to hurt yourself right now."

McCoy-- a far more reasonable name, Spock thought-- squinted irritably at the woman but stumbled away a few steps to flop down on a bench, grumbling beneath his breath. As soon as he was down, he dropped his head against the back of the bench and finished off the bottle in one swig. When he let his arm fall by his side once more, the empty bottle clattering against the bench, McCoy looked like he was about to burst into tears but then gasped and sat still, his eyes scrunched closed.

Spock felt a kind of fascinated alarm at the desperate way McCoy drank, drawing from the bottle as though he were dying of thirst. _K'vass_ was no gentle drink, either: it was made of a_ w'l'qn_ root vegetable noted for its intense flavour, whose distillation created a bitter drink that was sold only to off-worlders desperate enough not to care that they were getting intoxicated on garbage alcohol.

"Thank you, Uhura," Kirk said.

"Don't thank me," Uhura snapped back, in an utterly different tone than the firm but gentle one she had addressed McCoy with. "What's going on-- _Captain_?"

"For the last time," said Kirk very softly, "I have a ship, a chief engineer, and a first officer, and we have a job to do now."

Uhura's shoulders drew back and her chin lifted. "Orders, sir?" she asked crisply. Just like that, her entire being had changed-- as did Sulu's. The man's tired eyes sharpened and settled on Kirk's face, attentive and waiting. Spock was relieved to at last see the first semblance of coherency and professionalism in the crew. A former Starfleet officer like Pike wouldn't have run a ship crewed by angry, bickering children, after all. It appeared that Kirk _could _hold them together in Pike's absence.

"Orders?" hiccuped McCoy from the bench, interrupting. "We don't have a _crew_. There are _two _people here. And he's injured," he added, flinging out a clumsy hand in Sulu's direction.

Kirk's mental emissions reached a white-hot pinnacle of frustration that made the psi points on Spock's face burn with the intensity of the energy. Before Kirk could realise the shout of frustration he was imagining, Spock strode forward quickly.

"On the contrary," he said, planting himself firmly by Kirk's side, his legs akimbo, his chin lifted and his back straight so that he stood several inches taller than Sulu, the tallest of the humans. "There are three crew members here, Doctor McCoy, assuming you are, for some reason, not counting yourself or Captain Kirk."

McCoy lifted his head to stare at Spock. "The fuck are y-- Jesus _Christ_, Jim, that's _a fucking Vulcan_."

"Not really," Spock said.

"Oh my god," said Uhura, staring from him to Kirk in what looked like disbelief and horror. "You did _not_."

McCoy thrust himself to his feet, glaring and white-faced with rage. "You fucking green-blooded emotionless--"

Taking a step backwards, Uhura demanded of Kirk, "Are you blind or just stupid today?"

"--put a hypo into your _eye_, you son of a--"

"--the _stupidest _thing I've ever seen you--"

"--lucky if I don't peel the skin off your fucking precious _hands _and shove it up your--"

"--thinking with your head or your _dick_?"

"--see if I can't bring out a couple goddamn _emotions _when I dig your balls out of--"

"Can you fight?" demanded Sulu suddenly, his unexpected query cutting over McCoy and Uhura's tirades. Spock, who had been all but deafened by the simultaneous verbal and mental uproar, faltered for a moment before realising the question had been directed at him.

"Yes. Three different hand-to-hand combat styles, as well as formal training with numerous small arms and five types of bladed weapon, including the Romulan_ teral'n_ and the Klingon _bat'leth_."

McCoy started to spit abuse once more, but Spock was distracted by Sulu's next question. "Can you navigate a ship?"

"Very well. I've nearly completed a major in stellar cartography and astral navigation."

"Can you fix one?"

"I've got formal and practical training in engineering, including maintenance and repair of most domestic shipboard electronics, though I don't believe I could handle a ship in a major emergency."

"And you want to be on this crew?"

Spock's reply was immediate. "Yes."

Sulu's cool expression hadn't changed the entire time he was questioning Spock, and it didn't change then, either. "Then you're on the crew. If the captain's cleared you, none of us should be questioning it. We don't have the right _or_ the luxury, right now."

Uhura had gone resentfully quiet, but McCoy let out a loud, bestial-sounding snarl, spit flying from his mouth. His face was contorted with something approaching murderous rage. "Like _hell_!" he roared. The words resonated around the entire enormous lounge, causing other beings to begin to stare at them, something which Kirk seemed alarmed to note. "I will _never_\--"

At that moment, he pitched forward and nearly fell. Kirk lunged, caught McCoy, and took the chance to shove him up back down on the bench. With such fluid synchonicity that Spock marvelled, Uhura drew a hypospray out of one of the pouches on her belt and slapped it into Kirk's palm almost the moment that Kirk thrust his hand out for it. Kirk jammed it into the side of McCoy's neck before the man had a chance to cry out again.

Almost immediately, McCoy rocked forward and grabbed his head, hunching over his knees. "No," he moaned. "Not ready to be sober."

"Deal, Bones," Kirk growled.

He pushed McCoy upright again and knelt on the bench. Almost straddling the man's lap, he took McCoy's face in his hands and put his own face very close to the doctor's ear, so close that Spock shifted nervously at the near obscenity. McCoy whimpered and buried his face in the shoulder that Kirk had pushed towards him. As Kirk muttered softly to him, his voice vacillating between harsh and tender, McCoy rocked slightly against Kirk's chest, hiding what might have been silent sobs.

Despite the intimacy-- and desperation, on McCoy's part-- of their position, Spock was surprised to note that there was nothing sexual in it, not even a hint of lust in Kirk's psi waves. It was the first time all night Kirk had been devoid of desire. And, despite everything he had done with Kirk (he veered away from the memories, feeling his control crack at the very thought), Spock felt uncomfortable to be witnessing such a personal moment.

Uhura and Sulu seemed to have the same idea. Sulu drifted several steps away and began to stroll a circuit around the bench, idly thumbing the edge of the short sword that he drew from one of the numerous sheaths on his belt. The casual menace was enough to make most onlookers turn away hastily. Uhura moved between Spock and the bench, blocking his view.

"So," she said, drawing Spock's attention. Her face was hard and unforgiving, her arms folded tightly over her chest. "First officer. Didn't think Vulcans bent over for stuff like that."

"I didn't," Spock said, and tried for a joke. "Can't speak for other Vulcans, though."

Her grim expression didn't flicker. "_I carry a charged phaser at all times_," she said in _w'l'qnir_, low and guttural. The words of Spock's native language were feral coming from Uhura's mouth. "_And if I ever find out you touched his mind-- _anybody's_ mind-- I'll kill you_."

"_If I ever violated anybody's mind, I would welcome your gun_," Spock replied steadily, meeting her stare head on.

When he was five, Spock had nearly been killed by a le-matya that had wandered onto the grounds of his parents' isolated estate. Before Sarek had sprinted close enough to deliver a vicious killing blow to the creature's spine, it had knocked Spock to the ground and crouched over him, its blood-green eyes boring into his as it had tensed to spring upon him with poisonous claws bared. Uhura's dark eyes much resembled the le-matya's... but they even more closely resembled Sarek's.

Spock heard Scott's arrival (the hushed muttering in his heavy brogue was unmistakable) at exactly the same time Uhura's eyes snapped over Spock's shoulder, pinning the man. Scott's footsteps faltered.

"Hello there," Scott said cautiously. He sidled a bit closer to Spock's side. "This _is_ the right group, then, lad?"

His anxiety was understandable. The lounge was almost dead silent with tension that everybody was doing their best to ignore, pretending too hard that the group did not exist at all. They were people who lived most of their lives in the black and knew better than to disrupt such a dangerous crew, whether they were currently on a _w'l'qn_ station or not. Kirk was still kneeling on McCoy's lap, the doctor was still whimpering into his shoulder, and Uhura looked ready to kill Spock, while Sulu circling around with a naked sword in hand brought a vaguely sociopathic air to the whole thing.

"Yes," Spock said. "And you are, apparently, quite in demand. Their three engineers seem to have deserted."

Scott lost his reservations at the first mention of shop talk. "Only three engineers?" he demanded, aghast. "On a ship meant to take as many beatings as your poor _Number One_?"

"We had five," Uhura said shortly. "A photon torpedo punched through half of engineering. Broma got concussed and Standish got the skin burned off his hands, and they've quit now. Jensen and Balu bled out beneath the wreckage while Lorenson was running around trying to fix the damage on his own. Helmsman McKenna went down to assist and Sulu took the helm, at which point another torpedo blew out most of the consoles on the bridge and rammed a piece of siding into his ribcage."

"It's fine," Sulu murmured, as he swept past on his next circuit.

"You'd never know we were picking shards of his ribs off the deck just ten days ago," said a groggy voice. They all looked over to see McCoy sitting up on the bench again, Kirk standing with a hand on his shoulder. The doctor's eyes were swollen and he appeared close to passing out, but the worst of his breakdown had passed. "Nothing like a good hunk of medi-plast surgically implanted in your side to make ya feel great again, huh? Masochistic dumbass."

"Are we clear to proceed, captain?" Uhura asked, pivoting on her heel to face Kirk.

"Affirmative, lieutenant. Scotty, Spock-- this is everybody. Everybody, these are our new friends. They're going to play a game with us now."

At Kirk's gesture they closed in on him, forming a tight knot around the bench. Uhura's shoulder was tense against Spock's, but she said nothing about being forced to stand so close to him. One hand still on his sword, Sulu glanced around them to make sure that they were suitably isolated from the rest of the lounge. He needn't have worried: nobody was standing within twenty metres of them.

"Fucking hate your games," McCoy muttered. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Spock, still bright with unfettered hatred, but whatever Kirk had whispered into his ear had leashed McCoy's rage, at least for the moment. The man had to be absolutely psi-null, though, for Spock was standing only two feet away and could feel absolutely nothing in the way of psi energy, let alone the scream of hate that McCoy's glower suggested.

Such ringing emptiness was disturbing for Spock, who was accustomed to feeling at least a shimmer of energy from even the most well-shielded of _w'l'qni_. It made McCoy... an outlier. Unknowable.

"It's a game called 'steal a ship from the Vulcans'," Kirk said in a low voice, baring his teeth in a smile. "This is how we play."

*

McCoy didn't stop voicing his disapproval all the way down to the main docking level, where all the thrusts joined with the station's main body around the enormous circular walkway that wrapped the whole circumference of the spindle. As the group moved along in a tight-knit pack, eyes roving constantly over the surrounding crowds as though they thought their intentions might be apparent to the casual observer, McCoy kept up a low stream of complaints.

"Is anybody else even a _bit _concerned with the fact that we were talkin' about this harebrained scheme in front of a _Vulcan_?" he hissed. "That a Vulcan _gave _us this grand idea?"

"Ye know Spock's not just any Vulcan, don't ye?" said Scott, a touch sharply. He had brought along a satchel that quite probably contained every meagre belonging the _w'l'qn_ refugee council had granted him, and there was a heavy belt strapped around his waist that bristled with a multitude of esoteric tools and devices.

"Names, Mr Burns," Spock reminded him quietly. As the group moved along, crowds parting for them just because of the dangerous intensity in Kirk and Sulu's eyes, he was more concerned with the fact that Kirk's crew looked and acted so _wary_. It was not normal behaviour. Their very paranoia that somebody would notice something amiss made people think something was amiss.

"Aye, sorry, lad-- Reish. Romulan. Romulan name, right. Well, doctor, he's a hell of a man, he is! Better man than any Vulcan I've ever met."

"You must not've met very many, then," McCoy snarled back. "Also, why the false names? We in _that _much danger, _Spock_? They watching us right now? And ain't anybody gonna find it suspicious that we all went and took all our stuff from the _Number One_?"

"Don't ye worry your wee self about that," Scott told him, with more than a little condescension. "If ye got it through customs, then either they don't care what ye got and what ye do with it, or they don't even suspect ye might have it."

"Arrogant bastards," muttered McCoy.

"In this case, it serves us well," Spock replied tersely. "Our advantages are not so many that you should speak dismissively of what we have to work with, doctor."

Uhura drew a hissing breath between her teeth and shot Spock an angry glance. "Shut up or stop baiting him," she ordered.

Spock thought that was distinctly unfair but said nothing.

"Here we are, then-- 'scuse me, lad," Scott murmured, jostling his way to the front of the group. They had reached the entrance to thrust 16, no more than an open doorway set into the outer perimeter of the enormous ring-shaped walkway. As Spock had thought, a force field was stretched across the doorway, emitting a low-pitched hum. Kirk slipped aside to allow Scott into the shallow alcove that was left open.

Wolf-eyed, he and his crew lounged back around the alcove, their lurking, thuglike formation blocking Scott from view of the crowds streaming by from either direction. They managed to appear remarkably casual, if predatory. Spock hesitated a moment before joining the group, slouching against the wall next to Sulu with what he hoped was suitable ease. In another moment, he heard Scott's fingers begin to clatter across the control panel's keys.

"We are standing _in the middle of the hall_," McCoy whispered harshly. His eyes darted around, expression deranged. "Do you see all those people, son? Know how many of them have _eyes_?"

"Bones, hush. Scotty needs quiet."

"Actually, I dinnae--"

"Shut up. Pretend you're invisible, you're not supposed to be there."

His fingers still flying with unhindered speed, Scott lowered his voice to a whisper. "Oh. Right. Good thing ye reminded me, captain-- sometimes I forget these things, see."

McCoy moaned. "God help us all."

"Status?" asked Kirk tensely.

"I cannae work _miracles_," Scott protested, sotto voice. "Ye'll have to give me at least two more-- oh _shite_."

Before anybody could ask, he rammed into Kirk from behind in an attempt to get out of the alcove. Startled into panic by his frantic urgency, the rest of the group immediately scrambled to back away from the door, tripping over each other, all of them struggling to retreat as fast as possible without drawing attention to themselves.

And then Uhura fell. Pushed off balance by Scott, she tripped over Kirk's ankles and fell backwards. Kirk staggered back into McCoy, arms windmilling, and the two of them collapsed to the deck in a tangle. A yellow-scaled Umbvai leaped back with a loud cry, dropping her box of swivel joints, which triggered a shout of general uproar from the crowd packed into the corridor. Surrounded by a sea of greasy ball bearings, Uhura kicked at the deck, still fighting to get clear of the doorway.

"The _fuck_?" demanded Sulu, wild-eyed, one hand on a sword hilt.

"--someone _coming_," Scott whispered hoarsely, waving a frantic hand.

As if time had slowed, Spock's eyes landed on the pile of people on the deck: Uhura's frantic inability to regain her feet, Kirk and McCoy entangled in a struggling heap, all of it an utterly damning display of panic--

\--and leaped in front of the door moments before the barrier dissolved.

Tall and aquiline, the _w'l'qn_ woman blinked at Spock and drew to an abrupt halt, finding her path suddenly blocked. The stack of transparent plastic data sheets in her hands nearly fell to the floor, and she wavered to recover them-- and stopped just far enough back in the hall that Kirk and Uhura were out of her line of sight.

"_Spock_," T'Valis said, appearing as startled to see him as he was to see her. "_What are you doing here_?"

"_I needed to speak with you, professor_," he replied promptly in their native language, his mind racing. He could only hope that the crowd of beings streaming by behind him would continue to move about their business, not too distracted by the display that they would stop to stare and draw T'Valis' attention. "_I was informed that you were on the station_."

"_Is your query really a matter of such great urgency_?"

"_It pertains to the Academy's ship_," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Spock saw Kirk dragging McCoy to his feet, their faces tight with the strain of silence. "_I was unaware that the launch date was so close, or I would have broached the matter in a calmer manner, but there is no time. The ship cannot launch_."

"_Spock, you are more logical than this. It must launch_."

"_There is a problem with the warp core matrix_," he lied, inventing frantically. "_Sukak alerted myself and the rest of the design team early this morning to a miscalculation in the design. There is a flaw in the timing of the proton flow through the matter-antimatter chambers. The start-up sequence will be catastrophic_."

"_Impossible_," T'Valis snapped, but her face had gone white. "_Your design was approved by the Science Academy's entire aeronautics department. A team has just finished performing the final check of the ship. There can be no flaws_."

"_Let me show you_," Spock said, allowing his eyes to widen in a mimicry of desperation. T'Valis' expression grew yet more horrified in response to such an overt display. She believed him-- of course she did. What reason had she to distrust her most talented student?

If he could just get within arm's reach-- another eighteen centimetres...

"_This cannot be_\--" And then her gaze dropped from his face, just for a moment, and she saw his clothing. "_Spock. _What _are you_\--"

Uhura lunged around the corner and fired a single shot into T'Valis' chest at point blank range. T'Valis collapsed to the deck instantly, data sheets scattering everywhere.

"_No_," Spock said, horrified. "You can't just--"

"Go go _go_," McCoy interrupted harshly, shoving him forward into the corridor. "Nobody's lookin', the hall's clear, for god's sake go or get out of the way!"

"There are other people on board," whispered Spock hoarsely, scrabbling to seize Kirk's wrist as Kirk shouldered past him. He managed to yank the man to a halt before he could break into a sprint down the long hall. Kirk staggered, rebounding back against him. "They are--"

At the far end of the thrust, 203.4 metres away, four engineers stepped into the hall from the airlock that lead to the ship. Scott, who had been a few steps ahead of Kirk, staggered to a sudden stop. Everybody froze, the two groups staring at each other in stunned silence-- Kirk's crew at the _w'l'qni_ blocking their way onto the ship, the _w'l'qni_ at the open door and the strangers intruding upon a forbidden area.

_W'l'qni_ had 24.6% better long-distance eye sight than did humans. They could see T'Valis' unconscious body crumpled on the deck.

"_Go_!" Kirk bellowed.

The group scattered instantly, bolting out of the thrust and back into the main hall, save for McCoy, who seemed to be frozen with shock. Spock seized a fistful of McCoy's jacket and hauled the man back as fast as he could as two of the _w'l'qni_ began to sprint up the hall, shouting orders to halt. Galvanised and spitting furiously, McCoy took off after Uhura, Sulu and Kirk, roaring, "I fucking _told _you so!"

Scott pumelled the control panel furiously. The force field sprang back to life. Even as the engineers got closer, he continued to input commands with frantic speed, trying to enage as many locks as he could. Growing more and more tense, Spock waited as long as he could before finally grabbing Scott by the collar and tearing him away from the panel with a harsh bark of, "_Run_!"

Together they took off hard on McCoy's heels, plunging through the reeling cluster of shocked Cardassians that had been scattered by the rest of the crew. Behind them, Spock heard a buzzing crash and a shout of pain as one of the _w'l'qn_ engineers rebounded off the barrier.

"Oh, I _like _this crew," Scott panted, bright-eyed and mad. Even at a full-out sprint, Spock spared the man an incredulous stare. "It's excitin'."

Spock restricted his acerbic commentary to his own head in order to save his breath for running. It was a pity: he was sure that at least two of his retorts would have made Scott laugh. Under different circumstances, Spock treasured the ability to delight people, particularly those with such a rare combination of good nature and brilliance as Engineer Scott. He valued the man's companionship, and Scott seemed to appreciate his in return, even if it was only because the human was entirely deprived of any other amicable contact.

In the 2.67% eventuality that they actually managed to escape with a ship, Spock would have to remember to relate the comments to Scott, belated or not.

They caught up to the rest of the group just in time to see Sulu and Kirk doubleteam the door to the main transporter hall. In one ferocious lunge, Sulu plunged his short sword hilt deep into the door's locking mechanism and ripped the blade sideways. His sword cleaved the door laterally in two, leaving a melted gash through the aluminum and composite bilayer that could not have been caused by any ordinary blade. Then Sulu pivoted neatly away and Kirk dashed into the gap to ram his shoulder into the door. The force of his momentum and weight snapped the door the rest of the way in two, upper and lower halves crashing inwards.

"_Everybody on the deck_!" Kirk roared, charging forward with his phaser pistol in hand. Screams of shock and terror poured from the hall, coupled with the sounds of countless bodies thudding against the floor.

"So much for a _quiet _operation," Spock heard Uhura growl as she sprinted in after Kirk and Sulu.

"Ye can tell they've had practice!" said Scott in admiration, as he and Spock hurried after the crew. Even McCoy had rushed ahead, though as the doctor was the only one not brandishing a weapon, Spock suspected the man's motivation may have been more to keep from being left behind. Probably a good idea. First officer or not, Spock didn't get the impression that Kirk would wait overly long for stragglers.

They skidded into the transporter room at the very end of the hall. Sulu had already driven the tech out with a sword at her back. The moment Spock entered, just a step behind Scott, Kirk keyed the door shut.

"Fucking perfect, now we're trapped," McCoy groaned.

Everybody ignored him. Spock and Scott moved simultaneously for the transporter console while Uhura had already put on a comm headset abandoned at the coordinator's station. Kirk got Sulu to pry the door's control panel off the wall with a twist of his sword, exposing the circuitry beneath. He plunged his hands in and began to rip at the wiring.

Scott's hands moved feverishly over the console, tapping and adjusting so fast that Spock couldn't follow half of the commands being inputted. He made a mental note (again assuming the dwindling 1.92% chance of survival) to rectify his inexperience with transporters.

"You read Vulcanir?" he asked Scott, being previously unaware of the man possessing such an ability.

"Not a bloody word," Scott replied with psychotic calm, even as he continued to type on a keyboard labelled in _w'l'qn_ symbols. "But I mostly figure that I've seen this done enough times that I can probably manage something close to what we want, ye ken?"

McCoy had gone a nasty colour of grey. "Let me out," he said instantly, staggering over to Kirk at the door. "This is lunacy, Jim. I'm done. Rather die shooting at a couple hobgoblins than get my insides smeared all over an asteroid somewhere out there."

Kirk had a mouthful of screws and a handful of exposed wires. His smile was still halfway a grimace of concentration. "Bones, when have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Plenty of times!" McCoy howled.

Sulu grabbed the man's jacket, preventing him from lunging at Kirk. McCoy's struggles were halfhearted at best. When Sulu pushed him away, not unkindly, he staggered a few steps before dropping despondently against the wall. Rather than fighting any longer, he pulled a flask from inside his jacket and began to gulp from it as fast as he could, apparently choosing self-inflicted oblivion in the absence of suicide.

The rest of the crew seemed to ignore McCoy's behaviour as normal. Shocked, Spock forced himself to concentrate on calibrating what few sections of the transporter controls he could understand. He was already distracted enough by Kirk's emotions, which were running high and harsh. Off-kilter as he was, Spock caught himself vowing ludicrously (in the 1.05% chance of success) to teach Kirk some goddamn telepathic _manners_.

"Security teams have been dispatched on all decks," Uhura reported sharply, from the coordinator's station. "Three teams closing in on us right now, four more sweeping the decks above and below."

She had the security monitors open before her, scanning them at the same time as she surfed through all open channels of radio communication. Spock could hear the line chatter from where he was standing, dozens of voices barking in urgent _w'l'qnir_ adding to the cacaphony.

Kirk had pried open his phaser, removed the nuclear battery, and connected it to the lethal-looking tangle of circuitry he had wired into the open panel. Spock had only a glimpse of the assembly before Kirk announced with a smile, "Here's the life support," reached into the panel to connect a single wire to the device, "and there it goes."

Distantly, something exploded. The deck shuddered and the lights disappeared.

In the moment of abrupt, total blackness, McCoy let out a strangled cry. There was genuine terror in the noise. Hearing the horrible whisper of the station-wide ventilation system sighing to a halt, knowing that airflow had ceased all over the spacedock, Spock could genuinely not believe what Kirk had done. His shock was stupefying. From outside the transporter room, Spock heard blood-curdling screams ring through the door, the people outside seized by the deepest and oldest raw animal fears of darkness and suffocation.

Then emergency lights flared on at the base of the transporter pad and from under the consoles, filling the room with dull red light. A generator in the floor whirred to life, air gushing into the room once more through the grating underfoot.

Kirk caught McCoy when the man staggered at him, swearing and shaking violently from head to toe. He seemed to have no trouble catching McCoy's fists and restrained the trembling man almost casually. "Emergency backup power," Kirk explained, though it fell on deaf ears as McCoy struggled against him, halfway between sobbing and incoherently cursing Jim's existence. "Only in the transporter rooms, engineering bays and lifts. Should keep them busy dealing with the civilians for a bit."

"A bit's all the time we need," Scott said, his eyes dancing. "Coordinates locked to the ship. Now or never, lads-- she's ready as she'll ever be."

Sulu dragged McCoy's arm over his shoulder and hauled the man onto the two-man transporter pad, his silence brooking no protests. McCoy finished the contents of his flask in a single desperate swig and stood swaying on the pad like a condemned man facing his executioner. The whites of his eyes were showing, wide and wild.

Outside the door, the panicked screaming continued unabated as Scott initiated the transporter sequence. Unable to bear it any longer, Spock staggered backwards until he hit the bulkhead and sank down it, clutching his temples.

Terror and panic and desperation tore at him like blunt knives, stabbing into his mind from all sides, the all-consuming panic of an entire station full of people screaming in on him. It suffocated and smothered, pouring through the fracturing walls of his cracked shields, filling his mouth and nostrils and throat like boiling mud, sulphurous water that burned as it roared into him, cutting off his air--

The hard grip of Kirk's hand on his shoulder was a white-hot beacon blazing through the nightmare. Spock jerked violently, his head snapping up. Without thinking, he grabbed blindly for Kirk's hand, his wrist, anything.

Kirk hauled him to his feet, skin to skin, hands kissing roughly by accident. Kirk's psi waves were a welcome bonfire, so powerful that they drowned out everything else, flash-evaporating the ocean in a roil of blistering steam.

Spock managed to stumble onto the pad without falling over, still gripping Kirk's hand. The room had emptied out and they were now the only ones left, except for Scott. The long shadows made Kirk's face haggard. Against his palm, Spock could feel cool wetness and knew from Kirk's thoughts that it was blood, the human's hands gashed and burned in a dozen tiny places from the sharp metal and exposed wired he had been working with.

Standing at the console with his hand over the, Scott looked up at them with fever-mad eyes. "Transporter on the other end should already be set for these coordinates," he said. "Beam me up, lads. Ye leave me here and I promise you'll regret it. I'm not a man ye want in your enemy's engineering bay."

"Energize," was all Kirk said, and then Scott dissolved them in a blaze of blue light before Spock could reply, the rush of molecular disintegration swallowing his promise as it whirled them away into the darkness, to their ship awaiting them in the blackness of space and to the unknown beyond it.


	4. Chapter 4

When Spock opened his eyes again, it was to a transporter room so full of white light that his eyes watered. He felt his pupils contract painfully. Stepping off the pad on a blind assumption of where the step would be, he shuttled his secondary eyelids until enough of the water and pain had disappeared to allow him to make out the tiny room, which was nothing but a sterile cell containing a control console and the two-man transporter pad Spock and Kirk had just landed on.

McCoy was slumped against the wall next to a steel ladder, which lead straight up through an open hatch in the ceiling. "Up two flights," he croaked, gesturing feebly at the ladder. In the brighter light the grey pallor of his face was alarmingly clear, beads of sweat standing out on his pasty skin. He looked like he was about to have a twentieth-century heart attack.

Spock did not hesitate to stride for the console on the opposite side of the room. There was no time to attend McCoy, and, of everybody on the ship, the doctor was the one best qualified to treat his own illness. Even Kirk, who had displayed such empathy earlier, crouched beside McCoy for only a moment to exchange a hasty reassurance before he scrambled up the ladder.

Hoping that Scott's work had calibrated the transporter correctly, and that Scott had gotten onto the pad, Spock hit the initiation sequence. There was a long, breathless moment in which he thought something had malfunctioned-- and then the transporter whirred to life, particulate energy coalescing into a manic, grinning Scott.

"Knew ye'd nae forget me, Spock!" he crowed, bounding off the pad and taking control of the console. "Now let's take this girl's maidenhead good and proper!"

It wasn't until Spock was halfway up the ladder that he realised Scott had been talking about the ship. His mental agility was completely disabled. Spock needed to do something about that, and fast. In the darkness of the Jefferies tube, he started a three-breath meditation sequence and kept it up as he climbed.

The lack of light in the tube bothered Spock, though not because it gave him any difficulty. The rungs were spaced at intervals of thirty-five centimetres, and even in the dark hands found them unerringly. Rather, the fact that the sensors in the tube hadn't reacted to his presence and turned on the strip lighting meant that the ship's auxiliary systems were down. The only explanation for that was that the engines weren't running.

At the top of the ladder, Spock levered himself efficiently out of the open hatch. He found himself in a stairwell with steps running both up and down. Recalling the blueprints that he had helped to design, he exited the stairwell and found himself in the medical lab. At a sprint, the bridge was less than an eight second run down the corridor that ran the entire length of the ship's main deck. Spock sprinted down the long corridor, whipping past gleaming bulkheads and rooms that he had only ever seen on blueprints too fast to take in the reality of them.

The bridge was in chaos when Spock entered, taking in the scene immediately. Uhura had located the communications console and seated herself there, an earpiece designed for _w'l'qni_ fitted awkwardly into one round ear. She was the only one managing to do anything useful, her hands stuttering over the unfamiliar equipment. Though Kirk was seated in the command chair, his cursing at the chair's controls wasn't accomplishing anything, and Sulu was fumbling with the wrong console entirely.

"Where's the fucking comm?" Kirk was growling, stabbing at random buttons on the arm.

"Mr Sulu, the pilot's station is here," Spock announced, striding forward and pointing out the appropriate console. He flipped the button to activate Kirk's pickup as he passed the chair, and seated himself at the navigator's station. Booting his console and Sulu's at once, Spock's hands flew through identical motions to bring up the starting screens. Monitors blinked to life and the bridge's main viewscreen depolarised. The forward sensors snapped on, giving them a clear view of the field of stars glittering before them, just out of reach.

"Oh, shit," Uhura muttered beneath her breath. Spock glanced over and noticed, with no little admiration, that she appeared to have hacked a number of closed frequencies. "Captain, security backup has just been launched from Vulcan. They'll be within firing distance of us in eleven minutes."

"Nothing's in Standard!" Kirk snapped in frustration. There was more than an edge of panic to his psi waves, even if it translated to anger in his voice. "Spock, what the fuck does any of this say?"

"Your shipwide comm is on, captain," Spock replied sharply. When Sulu continued to hesitate over his console, Spock reached over and jabbed in a generic log-in code. His breathless hope that individual voice codes had not yet been laid in was answered when white activation lights flared on the pilot's controls.

"It's wha-- engineering! I just want engineering! Tell me Scotty's down there."

A loud crackle of static answered him. Startled, Kirk jerked his head away from the speaker embedded in the chair next to his left ear.

"--ucking thing-- dinnae know how I kin possibly-- maybe this'll--"

"Scotty!" Kirk shouted in relief. "You're on."

"Oh, am I really? Wonderful, that. I just-- ye bloody piece o' garbage, what d'ye mean my code isn't authorised!" The sound of a loud kick being landed against something metal blared through the connection.

"Mr Scott," Spock interrupted, "what is the state of the engines?"

"Not wonderful," Scott replied grimly. "I can't make out heads or tails o' these consoles, and everything's off, by which I mean everything's cold. They dinnae even have the matter-antimatter chambers cyclin' yet! I need at least half an hour to--"

"We don't _have_ half an hour," Kirk said, his nails biting into the arm of the chair. "Can't you just--"

"Sir, receiving hail from the starbase demanding we stand down," Uhura broke in.

"Tell them to go fuck themselves!" snarled Kirk. "Sulu, where's the weapons array on this thing? Scotty, I want--"

"We will have to do a cold start," Spock announced, directing his voice to Kirk and the comm pickup. He wasn't sure whether to laugh hysterically or be genuinely worried when he heard Uhura in the background literally telling the spacedock comm officer to go fuck herself in _w'l'qnir_.

Scott nearly exploded. "A cold start!" he yelped. "I can't even read the control panels! How d'ye expect me to--"

"It's theoretically possible," Spock retorted. He was still going through initiation sequences one after another, booting up the aft sensor arrays and network drives, the inertial dampener mechanisms and the vector compensators. Sulu had just stepped back, allowing Spock full access to type frantically on both consoles, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Aye, everything's possible in theory! But _theoretically_ a ship this size might well be torn apart by the tachyon vectors from the matter-antimatter implosion before we even hit warp!"

"Mr Scott, I don't know what kind of ships the Union is flying, but the Vulcan Science Acadamy has spent the last twenty years on intense research into warp technology and this is their newest prototype," Spock said tersely. "She was designed to be fully capable of a cold start in exactly six minutes and eighteen seconds."

"Do it," Kirk ordered instantly. "Do it now."

"Jim, I've got no clue what any of this says," Sulu said, staring at the stark _w'l'qnir_ letters displayed on his station's screens and control panels. "I can't fly this thing."

"Without a translator, neither can I," Scott agreed. His voice was shaky.

Kirk's piercing blue stare swung around to Spock, locking onto him and freezing him in place. There was only a split second of hesitation, immediate comprehension lancing between the two of them like a synaptic arc as they had the exact same thought.

"Spock, take command," Kirk ordered. He rose from the chair and bounded down the low steps to the nav console, which was sunk several feet below the command podium. Above them, at the back of the bridge, Uhura gave a shocked gasp and stared down at them. Her disbelief was palpable.

In such close proximity Spock's skin crackled with the energy pouring from Kirk, stinging his raw psi points like salt against open wounds. By comparison, the shallow cut over his heart was barely painful at all, blood crusted and oozing though it was. The energy-- it grated on his overstimulated psi points, tore his shields ragged and would leave him with a crippling headache in three hours' time, no doubt about that, but the pain shocked him into something colder than panic, clearer than confusion. The adrenaline-bite was sharp in Spock's veins. Kirk's eyes were burning as he came level with Spock and his lawless mind struck into the deepest parts of Spock's brain, to the roots of his ancestry and times remembered only by blood and instinct, when _w'l'qn_ warlords injured on the battlefield had once been known to hand off command of their armies to a subordinate with a bite of mistrust and a kiss that promised the reward for a successful return.

Spock took a breath and nodded sharply to Kirk. Drawing his spine tight and his control tighter, Spock turned on his heel and mounted the command podium, his hands flicking at the controls even before he had seated himself in the chair. He narrowed the comm broadcast down to only the engineering bays, biting out as he did so, "Lieutenant Uhura, the ETA of planet-side security?"

"Seven minutes and twenty seconds."

"Mr Scott, you will be following my orders to the letter. Without the proper access codes we will have to conduct the procedure manually. It is time-sensitive and we have only one minute and two seconds to spare."

Spock allowed himself exactly one of those precious seconds to draw a deep breath, his eyes flicking around the bridge to take final stock of what he had to work with. Then, plunging himself into the coldest current of logic that ran through him, he began to bark orders.

"Lieutenant, report to engineering. You will be able to tell Mr Scott what the _w'l'qnir_ on the consoles says and he will follow my orders from that." As she marched smartly off the bridge, he swung back around to face forward, his eyes landing on Kirk and Sulu.

"Kirk, take the nav station in front of you. Consider the bank of square buttons to your left to be labelled one through twenty-seven from left to right, the rectangular ones to your right as A through X, and the ones above the main screens alpha through lambda, while the four screens will be identified by their correlation to the Cartesian plane. Sulu, consider your console the same given whatever adjustments are necessary for the amount of buttons, with the addition of the warp controls as numbers thirty through forty-one from the top left corner down to the bottom right. Is this clear?"

"Clear," Kirk responded instantly, echoed by Sulu's firm, "Yessir."

"Computer, polarise viewscreen." Nothing happened. "Voice controls aren't yet activated," Spock surmised aloud to the other two, and began to type on the chair's control panel. "Sulu, type eight-twenty four-seventeen-gamma-theta and then hit the second box icon that appears on screen four. Kirk-- QXTKAHGK and hit box five on screen one each time it appears."

The main viewscreen went black just as Spock finished his own work. Within a few seconds he had transferred the readout from Sulu's console to the blank viewscreen. Green _w'l'qnir_ characters scrolled across the screen.

"The lass is down here," Scott announced through the comm. "Ready as we'll ever be, lad."

"Initiating cold start sequence. Lieutenant, you have twenty-three seconds to familiarise yourself with-- Kirk! Beta-beta-twenty nine-beta!-- with the engineering bay's layout."

"What about you?"

"I know the layout," Spock replied. He had the blueprints in his mind, designs he had spent months labouring over, and the only thing he could hope for was that his memory wouldn't blank in the cacophony. "Ask no questions, ever, I do not have the time _Sulu do not touch that button_. Hit PF-iota." Characters on the viewscreen began to flash blue in urgent warning.

"There's a screen--"

"Ignore it! PF-iota again. Screen three, icon eight. Icon two. Again." The blue warning disappeared. Spock saw Sulu's shoulders tighten at the weight of his glare, but he had no time to waste on chastisements. His attention was already elsewhere, thoughts of the near disaster discarded instantly.

Spock felt his heart beating very fast, thrumming against his side, but the sensation was so distant that it could almost have been someone else's body. All he could see or think about was the avalanche of information springing up on the main viewscreen as he ordered it there. Engineering readouts, start up sequences, power fluctuations, all in addition to the navigation plots that would have been his primary duty. The viewscreen split to accommodate the information Spock was routing to it, then split again into quarters. Eigths.

"Sulu, four-LT-thirteen-X. Kirk, gamma-gamma. On screen two-- box one. One. Theta and R. Box four. Sulu, twenty eight-nine-alpha-ten. Mr Scott! You are clear to open the primary input valves of the main reactor core. You have thirty-two seconds to get the proton accelerator functioning on level six."

Spock heard the man curse at the same time as Uhura started reading aloud from the panel. Scott began barking orders for her to identify particular buttons, and the order-answer sequence became rapidfire within seconds. Spock attended it with only half an ear, still shooting his own commands to Kirk and Sulu while punching in activation codes for the proton accelerator's nucleic dividers as Scott's actions unlocked them one by one.

"Kirk! Four-fourteen--"

"Four-four-ten or--"

"Four. _Fourteen_! Seven!"

"Accelerator runnin' level two," Scott reported. "Level three--"

"Sulu, alpha-gamma and knob thirty eight turned one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise."

"Level four!"

"Faster, Mr Scott! The antimatter chambers open in eight seconds!"

Blue warnings started to flash on the viewscreen as the ship's systems tried to take over and shut down the start sequence before volatile antimatter particles could pour into a matrix still full of negative charges that would set off an explosive reaction. Spock didn't even have to think; his hands were already typing the cancellation commands even as he was barking at Kirk to complete the task he had been distracted from. Kirk surged into the rapidfire sequence without delay, taking up the task from Spock so fast that there was barely a pause in the inputting.

"Eight!" Scott shouted triumphantly, but Spock had already seen confirmation of the successful antimatter release on the viewscreen 0.682 seconds ago and he had moved on. Commands flowed across the viewscreen in an unending stream, arriving as fast as Spock could dismiss them. Long columns of numbers formed a rapidly growing matrix that tracked the progress of the antimatter equation, giving him less than 0.085 seconds to verify each number before it vanished off the edge of the screen, leaving long green streaks in Spock's vision that he stared through without blinking.

Somehow, he was talking-- somewhere, his body was giving orders to Kirk and Sulu, countless formulae whipped up from his memory and translated into symbols that the humans would understand and reeled off in a mind-numbingly fast babble that Spock couldn't remember the second it left his mouth. He didn't know if he was speaking Standard or _w'l'qnir_, if Kirk and Sulu understood him, but as long as no error messages appeared onscreen he didn't care. He wasn't thinking. There was no thought-- there were only the numbers, and the control panels beneath his fingertips, and the flawless logic of physics.

"--kappa-twenty screen one flashing icon XLSJA-zeta-- Kirk fifteen-fifteen screen two box one eta-alpha-Q-eta-- Scott initiate cycle chamber venting _now_\-- Sulu slide forty-one down to third notch from the bottom doubleclick screen two green icon-- _Kirk _SASDHKD-beta-three-- Sulu hit thirty nine and hold--"

The entire ship lurched violently and a klaxon began to blare, warning lights flashing on all over the consoles. The deck heaved beneath their feet, nearly throwing Kirk from his chair. Tight-mouthed, Sulu clung to his station and kept his finger jammed down on the button so hard that his capillaries whitened. They all felt the ship stagger once more, the internal gravity fluttering for a weightless moment that made Spock's stomach swoop. He ignored it, rapidly dismissing the warning messages that had popped up all over the screens.

A subsonic hum ran through the deck beneath them as the ship's impulse engines strained against the spacedock's magnalocks, fighting the pull-- and then on command Sulu hit a final sequence that punched a one-quarter burst of impulse power into the ship's tiny reserve engines. The ship leaped out of the station's magnetic hold, taking eight kilometres in a single bound. The sensors went wild and then subsided, their readings barely more than a blip of especially frenetic activity on Spock's monitors.

_Disengaged_. The sudden breaking of the airtight seal between ship and station would have sent empty space flooding into the thrust, precious atmosphere sucked out into the black. The breach of atmosphere would have triggered plasma seals at the mouth of the thrust, locking off the arm almost instantly and making it impassable to security personnel that might have attempted to overtake the ship from there. All these things Spock knew, distantly, as they passed through his mind in an instantaneous flicker of synapses and vanished.

_Engine ignition in one minute and fifty-two seconds_. He didn't waste breath on announcing it; to do so would have disrupted the flow of orders and thus extended the time beyond those 112 seconds. If Scott didn't already know how long it would be, then Spock telling him wouldn't make any difference.

"Warnin' lights on all consoles!" Scott yelled. "What the devil are ye _doin_'?"

"Lieutenant-- console to the left of the door," Spock barked instead. He had barely heard the words and hadn't understood them at all. "Hit the third topmost button, and raise the lever all the way on my count-- the _white _button, _white_! Kirk AK-iota-- _now_, lieutenant!-- Kirk iota-theta-J-thirty-KJ--"

The numbers were moving, moving, out of Spock's mouth and in from the screens, swirling around him like a river of outward and inward bound riptides. There was no pause, no time for breath. He couldn't tell if he was keeping up with the domino effect of the matter-antimatter combustion or not, but kept going as fast as he could. Warning lights on, then off; alerts appearing and vanishing and appearing again, over and over. Submerged in the cold tunnel of logic, Spock didn't know what each individual command or alert was for. They simply came and he made them go, and made the numbers move, and move, and move.

Error. Discrepancy. A sudden surge of atypical readings stood out from the smooth flow like a flashing sign. The shock of disruption made Spock's heart leap again, but his mind absorbed the blow without hesitating. Adrenaline sliced sharp through his system. Though the video feed from the forward sensors had been disconnected, Spock took in the raw data and knew what it meant.

Proximity warning on three fronts. Hailing frequencies bombarded. Hull sensors traced with ion beams. Targets locked and painted with radioactive particles.

_Security ships_.

Spock's fingers flew across the chair's controls, wresting complete control of the nav console from Kirk and throwing the data up on the science station across the bridge because there was no more room for it on the main viewscreen. The transparent floor-to-ceiling telemetry boards lit up with green characters, severe _w'l'qnir_ script filling every inch of the available surface as several lines of Spock's impromptu programming transformed the boards from calculating surfaces into monitors linked to the nav console.

The cold start had to go on. It had progressed too far to stop. Spock would simply have to assume Kirk's responsibilities for the cold start so that Kirk could take the weapons array.

"Kirk, station at the fore right of the bridge!"

The man moved instantly, without question. Leaping from his chair so fast that it shot backwards, he vaulted over the railing in front of the nav console and sank down at the defence station. His hands shot out to hover over the unfamiliar controls, his fingers splayed wide and every inch of him tensed, coiled, waiting on edge for Spock's word.

Between guiding Scott, Uhura and Sulu with three separate sets of instructions, Spock had no time to explain the new set up, completely different from that of the nav console. Instead, he spared four seconds to type out a swift message, barely able to separate Standard from calculus. It flared on one of Kirk's screens a heartbeat later.

_Weapons array: safety controls overridden. Green buttons photon torpedoes, white buttons laser cannons, smallest buttons pulse guns. Layout logical: guess_.

"Arm cannons!" Spock snapped, in response to the spike of data that was a radioactive target being painted across their port nacelle. "Sulu ALK-eta-zeta-- Scott prime combination chamber for primary combustion-- Sulu delta-theta slide thirty seven to maximum _now _Kirk coordinates six-one-four by eight-eight-nine fire port lasers now now now _fire now FIRE_\--"

The ship trembled, but internal gravity remained stable and nobody except Spock knew that she had just wildly pivoted about eighty nine degrees and lunged three kilometres forward, barely evading a burst of laser fire that would have ripped into her starboard bow. Kirk's lasers had intercepted the photon torpedo only fifty metres from their nacelle, so close that the shields had been peppered with fragments of shrapnel. Alarms started to blare on other unattended consoles, bleaching Spock's vision with blue light that he noticed only distantly.

Coordinates-- particle recombination-- calculus-- viewscreen to science boards and back-- orders-- Scott-- _fire_\-- evasive-- dilithium vibration frequency adjustment-- Sulu-- laser cannon-- Uhura-- numbers-- viewscreen-- fire-- numbers-- warnings-- coordinates-- fifteen seconds-- numbers-- fire-- _fire_\-- numbers-- implosion-- eight seconds-- _fire_\--

Spock couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel his body, even as he knew his hands must have been working, his mouth moving-- wasn't _breathing_\--

The _numbers_\--

"Scott open the chambers on my count _Sulu _six-one-six-nine-lambda-A press thirty six Scott _NOW_!"

Matter. Antimatter. Contact.

Implosion.

Explosion.

Spock's head slammed against the back of the chair, teeth splitting his tongue open. His vision had gone grey, eyeballs about to burst-- he had lost the numbers, the _numbers_\--

And then the gravity surge let go and Spock snapped forward once more, his entire body quivering. Every bone in his body throbbed; his teeth felt loose in their sockets. There was a horrible, crippling pain in his side, his heart screaming from the labour of trying to pump blood against seventeen times the strength of normal gravity.

White spots burst in Spock's vision. By the time he blinked them clear, he couldn't tell if it had been one second or twenty, but it hardly mattered. The numbers had been lost and there was no recovering them. Except the screens--

Half of the screens had gone quiet, matrices collapsed, readouts flatlining. Panting for breath, Spock realised that the computers weren't dead: there was no more information for them to process. The cold start was complete.

Green letters had lit up on every console on the bridge and power readouts glowed white. The engines were online.

"Sulu," he spat out, struggling to speak through teeth that felt like they might be fractured to the roots. Shakily, Spock forced his fingers over a keyboard, punching in coordinates selected at random from the maelstrom of star systems and astral cartography whirling in his brain. "Thirty three," he croaked.

Blood dripping from his nose, Sulu put his violently trembling hand onto the sleek silver lever on his console. Without prompting, he leaned all his weight against the throttle-- and shoved it to the max.

At the front of the bridge, Kirk sat crookedly with half of his body hanging off the edge of his chair, nearly flung to the floor by the force of ignition. His head lolled back against the headrest, bright red blood streaking his forehead where he had smashed it against the console. One wrist dangled like it might have been broken.

In the sudden flare of white light that filled the bridge as the warp drive leaped and the stars blurred to streaks, Spock saw Kirk smile with bloody teeth.

There was a sudden ringing stillness in the spatial void of sublight speed. Aside from the placid beeping of instruments purring along at warp 7.3, the only sound on the bridge for a long time was that of harsh, panting breaths. Slumped back in the command chair, Spock was too wrung to care that some of them were his. His mind felt as depleted as his body, nine years worth of knowledge stripped from it in less than seven minutes, and he was _shaking_.

He had just stolen the most heavily guarded ship on _w'l'qn_ and guided a cold matter-antimatter combustion without real access codes or a properly trained crew. Between the two, Spock didn't know which success stunned him more.

Eventually, however, he heard Kirk's chair creak and forced himself to straighten up as well. Hoarsely, Spock said, "First officer relinquishing command, captain." He stood on legs that trembled and stepped down from the podium. Kirk moved past him with a wild, wide-eyed grin, his psi waves sweeping over Spock in a wave of exhilaration, exhaustion and utter shock that made Spock's mind shudder.

"Where are we headed, Spock?" asked Kirk. He didn't sit in the chair but rather leaned against it, clutching onto the back for support, as if too tired to sit without sleeping.

"Delta... the Centaurion Delta," Spock replied after a moment, almost unable to remember what coordinates he had entered. "It is possible to alter course if you would like, sir."

"I-- no. No, that's fine. Good a place as any for now. Anything important needs doing here?"

"Autopilot must be on," Sulu mumbled, groggily trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose. "God knows I'm not flying this thing."

"Affirmative."

"Fine, then. Spock, you have the con. Bring us down to warp 4.5, no need to strain the engines too hard after that. Don't-- don't... crash it or something."

Kirk heaved himself away from the chair and left the bridge, holding his left wrist against his body and keeping his right hand against the bulkhead for support as he stumbled down the passage. Spock was vaguely gratified to note that Kirk's legs were shaking as badly as his.

Finding his knees in danger of buckling, Spock gingerly sank down in the command chair again. One hand came to rest over his aching side, his eyes slipping closed as he let his head fall back. His heart hadn't stopped hurting. A piercing pain shot through his side with every beat. At the pace his heart was still going, the agony was nearly constant.

"Are you all right?" came Sulu's voice, tonally expressionless but concerned by virtue of the fact that he was asking at all.

"I believe one of the blood vessels in my heart may be ruptured," Spock replied with difficulty. Out of the cold tunnel-vision of logic and extreme stress, he was finding it hard to remain conscious. The last three hours were suddenly taking their toll on him, sapping the strength from every muscle in his body. Everything in him was raw, from his overstimulated psi points to the exposed nerves in the bloody wound on his side.

"You should go lay down," Sulu said. "Doctor McCoy won't be in any state to help you, but at least get some rest. I'll take the con."

Spock pried one of his eyelids open, staring at the human mistrustfully. Sulu's face was even more alien to him than Kirk's stubbled, scarred visage: for one, he had folds of skin at the inner and outer corners of his eyes that made his facial structure unlike anything that Spock had ever seen. There was no _w'l'qn_ ethnic group with a similar facial structure, and Spock had never met a human like Sulu, either (if it was ethnicity at all, and not surgical alteration). Sulu's nose was slightly flatter than Kirk's pugnacious snub, superficially resembling Uhura's, but his mouth, jaw and smooth cheekbones were unique altogether. Spock had a small enough frame of reference for reading human expressions that even those minor difference rendered Sulu's expressions so indecipherable that Spock felt no confidence in interpreting them.

Even if he _had _been able to read Sulu's face, his expressions were rare enough to make _that_, too, a challenge. Sulu was nearly_ w'l'qn_ in his composure. As Spock continued to stare, the human's face gave away no blatantly negative feelings-- gave away none at all, in fact. Vocally, physically, emotionally, he was in almost complete control of himself.

Sulu's abilities might have been well known to Spock, but his motives weren't. Whatever he wanted from getting Spock to leave the bridge, contrary to Kirk's orders--

Something must have shown in Spock's face or hesitation, because Sulu said, "Hey," and rose to his feet. His eyes tightened the slightest bit, too marginal an expression to interpret.

"I was the one who supported you, remember?" he said. His voice was flat, but there was a quality of ruthless hardness to it. Spock was familiar with _that _tone, at least; nearly all of his human acquaintances had possessed it. "I was the one that got you onto this ship. And if I wanted you gone, I wouldn't waste my time trying to discredit you in the captain's eyes, either. I'd just take this--" He pulled a tiny, four-pronged piece of metal from one of the pouches on his belt, lifting it to show Spock the light gleaming off razor edges-- "--and discharge it against your chest. The shape you look like you're in, you couldn't stop me. Seventy-five volts. If your heart was injured at all, it would just stop. All I'd have to do is tell the captain you collapsed. Autopsy would show heart damage."

Slowly, Spock nodded, not taking his eyes off the tiny, lethal weapon until Sulu put it away. Taking his own delirium into account, Spock didn't rule out the fact that he could well have imagined the slightly kinder softening in Sulu's eyes as he approached the command chair.

"Go," Sulu said, one last time.

Spock got to his feet painfully. Sulu kept his distance until Spock had come left the command podium entirely, and though it was probably as much wariness as respect, Spock was grateful for it. He hadn't felt Sulu's psi waves during the launch because they had been drowned out entirely by Kirk's, but in isolation the low vibration of Sulu's mental energy was perfectly tangible. Though he was positively meek compared to Kirk, Spock estimated that Sulu was probably human-average when it came to psionic ability.

In Spock's oversensitised state, even that minor emission _hurt_. His mind wanted to flinch away, a physical and practical impossibility. The best-- and only-- thing he could do was remain as far outside the sphere of Sulu's mental space as he could. Being untrained and mostly physiologically incapable, average humans had a psionic range of less than two metres.

Except for Kirk, of course. Always except for Kirk.

At a stiff hobble, the main corridor down the length of the ship seemed far greater than it initially had. As he made his way to the back of the ship, Spock narrowed his eyes against the light reflecting off brand new bulkheads and panels. It was too bright at the moment, too real. All he wanted was darkness and sleep. Still, at his slow pace, Spock had time to note the rooms that he passed by or through even if his awareness was only peripheral. A section of storage compartments, communal showers, a recreational room for group meditation or off-duty discussion that offered the only carpet on the ship... As tempting as the carpet's immediate comfort was in theory, Spock knew that if he lay down there he wouldn't be able to get up. He had no wish to fall asleep in a public area.

About to pass through the rec room, Spock paused. Directly in front of him, a set of stairs emerged from the engineering bay below, and at that moment Kirk was coming up the steps with an ashen-faced McCoy, the doctor's weight slung over his shoulder. Spock hastily ducked into the galley, clearing the hall.

A small ship may have had the benefits of speed and agility, but it had drawbacks. Because the power cost of operating turbolifts between only four decks would not have been worth the benefits, the decks were connected by stairs or ladders, which were only slightly more of an obstacle than lifts and posed no additional problems of hallway manoeuverability. Spock knew the corridors were as spacious as they possibly could be, given that _w'l'qni_ took personal space so seriously. 'Spacious', however, left only enough room for two people to pass without touching if they pressed to opposite walls; three people was too many even without McCoy's staggering lean.

Kirk had been too preoccupied with McCoy to notice Spock. As they came up the last few steps, McCoy was croaking, "--and then I hear this voice sayin', _no, the white button, hit the white button_, and all I could think was'at we were all gonna die. _That's_ was what runnin' that fuckin' crazy procedure I heard y'all hollerin' 'bout on the comm? Felt like y'all damn near blew this deathtrap half to bits!"

Kirk rasped a laugh, helping McCoy stagger down the hall towards the back of the ship. Spock didn't follow when the hall was clear, wanting to avoid McCoy entirely if at all possible. "Bones, we had it totally under--"

"Jesus _Christ_, Jim!" McCoy burst out at a roar, his hysteria peaking. "I hate this! You goddamn _know _I do! I musta been ten kinds a' goddamn fool to get involved with you mule-headed morons in the first place, and clearly I ain't got any smarter 'cause I ain't gone runnin' hell bent for leather away 'fore you could drag me into this bullshit again, you fuckin' idiot! I hate you!"

"No," Kirk said quietly.

"I hate this," sobbed McCoy, unrelenting. "I hate this. Why'd you have to go an' drag me into this again, Jim?"

"Bones, I didn't drag you anywhere and you know it," came Kirk's voice. It sounded like they were in the medical bay at the end of the hall, but the distance wasn't great enough nor their voices soft enough for Spock to miss the conversation. "Every time we stop somewhere, you could walk away and I wouldn't be able to fucking stop you. You'd kill me first, same as you killed that bitch that tried to force you into Starfleet seven years ago. You come because you want to."

"I never fuckin' want to, you jackass. I'm aviophobic-- means fear of dyin' in somethin' that _flies_, 'specially when it's bein' flown by a buncha children and _Vulcans_."

"Then because you have to."

McCoy made a hoarse, bitter sound that might have been a laugh. "Fuck you." There was a groan, and the sound of unsteady footsteps on the deck. "An' I wouldn't _kill _ya. Spent too much goddamn time puttin' your inside back where they belong that I wouldn't go and undo it all. Took an oath, once. Mostly I try to make it mean somethin'-- 'less I'm real pissed, 'spose." More footsteps, wandering. "Or drunk," McCoy added morosely, after a moment. "Or 'f they deserve it."

"Well, you're here now. We're running clear, Bones. Ship's all ours. Hey, look at all this shit-- I've been in hospitals half my life and I don't even know what all this is."

"I'll probably end up usin' it all on you at some point or another," McCoy snapped. "For Chrissakes, Jim, don't _touch _anythin', I ain't got a clue what this Vulcan voodoo shit does."

"Bones! Bones, look, I think you got an office!"

"An of-- you know what, Jim, stop foolin' around in there, I'll find it on my own! Don't be such a goddamn child. Get out, go! Only time I'll ever get to see this place _clean_."

"But I just--"

"An' don't _hover _either!" McCoy roared. The stability of his voice seemed to grow in tandem with his temper.

Spock heard Kirk snicker, and then footsteps disappearing into the stairwell at the back of the medbay which lead to the decks above and below. After a moment, McCoy let out a shaky sigh. Then there was the hiss of a door closing.

Spock left the galley with caution. Peering into the medical lab, he found it deserted and the door to the chief physician's office closed. Hobbling as quietly as he could, he hurried across the sickbay and to the stairs.

Even in his pain and exhaustion, however, he was unable to stop himself from glancing longingly at the other side of the room, where a transparent aluminium wall divided sickbay from the closely conjoined science labs. Together, the two labs took up the entire breadth of the ship at her widest point. They were the largest and best appointed sections the ship had to offer, better even than the state of the art engineering bay-- appropriately so, as the ship was a science vessel. What a crew of slave traffickers would do with her, Spock didn't know. If nothing else, they would at least be able to flee faster than anybody could pursue them.

_The ship, the ship_, Spock thought, somewhat hysterically. _Never a name. She has no name yet_. Robau and his crew had even christened their shuttles and escape pods, considering it bad luck to fly a vessel without a name. The rationale, which Spock halfway believed had been made up on the spot to satisfy a stiff and too-critical fifteen year-old Vulcan trainee, had been that a crew had no cohesive identity if their ship had no name.

Limping up the stairs half bent over the railing, his head was hanging so low that Spock didn't notice Kirk until he had almost run into the man.

"Spock!"

Startled, Spock jerked upright. His heart rate leaped, and the renewed shock of pain almost made his knees buckle. Swaying alarmingly, he gripped the railing in a white-knuckled hand to keep from falling backwards down the stairs.

"Kirk," he replied, too quickly, then corrected himself, "Captain."

Two steps above Spock, Kirk looked down at him with narrowed eyes. "I left you with the con."

"Mr Sulu has the con," Spock said, as evenly as he could, but wavered before finally forcing out, "I-- require... rest." He was reluctant to tell Kirk that his injuries were as serious as he suspected, not knowing what the man's reaction would be. From what he had seen of Kirk, it could be anything from complete callousness to complete concern. If it were the former, Spock didn't want Kirk knowing how weak he was; if it was the latter, neither did he want Kirk attempting to force McCoy's medical care on him.

Kirk's stare raked over him critically, stopping and lingering on the hand Spock had pressed over his side. Only then, distantly, did Spock realise his shirt was sticky with a wet spot that was spreading down past the waistband of his pants, and blood was leaking between his fingers. Compared to the crippling pains inside of him, the shallow cut had escaped notice entirely.

"Yeah. Go," Kirk said, but didn't offer assistance or move out of the way.

Content to let Kirk think his only injury was the cut, Spock made to limp past Kirk. He was pressed close to the wall as much from need for support was from need to keep as much distance between himself and Kirk as possible.

"Spock, I--"

Spock flinched away. Kirk's reaching fingertips fell when Spock's shoulder jerked back from them. Teeth gritted, Spock held himself against the wall and didn't look at Kirk. "Please," he ground out, raw and exhausted, before Kirk could try to continue. "Please, just..."

Spock didn't even know what he was asking for, but whatever Kirk heard in his plea, it made him back off.

"Whatever," Kirk said. He let Spock pass him on the narrow stairs and headed back down without another word.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Spock limped the rest of the way up and staggered into the first cabin he came to, not even aware enough to notice all of the other rooms in the hall. Dimly, he remembered that the top deck was nearly all cabins and that the first officer's quarters were right next to the stairs, and cared for nothing more. Without locking the door behind him, he crawled onto the bunk and collapsed into unconsciousness, fully clothed.

*

Some hours later, Spock was lifted into an exhausted haze by outraged yelling nearby. "...ammit, Jim, just give the biggest damn cabin to the fucking _hobgoblin_ an'... on this crew for five goddamn minu... ...n't really _care_ if he's the fucking Empress of..." Not even awake enough to understand, Spock didn't move a muscle, and drifted back to dreamless sleep to the muted sounds of Kirk and Uhura hushing McCoy.


	5. Chapter 5

Six days later, they stopped at a grimy Ferengi outpost on a terraformed moon, barely more than a shuttle bay and a bar. Spock had seen dozens like it on his tour with Robau. Nondescript, tiny and too out of the way for _w'l'qn_ to police, they made perfect locations for traffickers to exchange illegal cargo. Spock assumed that their ship was there to do as much, because on the second day Kirk had ordered them to change course to that outpost in particular.

An uneasy peace had fallen over the ship, dependent mostly on the condition that Spock and McCoy never crossed paths. Spock had done the best he could to keep out of the doctor's sight, even to the point of ducking into rooms or closets, while he knew McCoy would never make the same effort. Much as it had irritated Spock that he had to defer to McCoy's presence in any part of the ship at any given time, it had just been easier than starting McCoy off into a rage.

Sulu and Uhura had watched him go about avoiding McCoy without a word, their eyes giving away nothing. A tense, nervous silence tended to fall between them in any room that Kirk wasn't also in, blanketing many awkward meals and shifts on the bridge. Only when Kirk was present had Sulu and Uhura made conversation with him or each other. Even then their words had been stilted, and Kirk had had to force a jovial mood far too often. He had invariably ended up wearing a fake, clench-toothed smile that he was too stubborn to drop while they had all been painfully aware that the room had become even more strained. It was just as well that Scott essentially hadn't emerged from the engineering bay in those six days. (As far as Spock knew, the man hadn't even picked a cabin.)

Many hours of sleep and even more intense meditation had left Spock quiet and withdrawn, unable to socialise even if his relations with any of the humans had been good enough. Meditation had finally given Spock the control and perspective needed to take stock of what had happened that first day. Humiliated and frightened by his complete breakdown, he refused to permit himself even the smallest of emotions, leashing not only his curses, smiles and attempted jokes but also moments of internal frustration and exasperation.

His human crewmates would have been surprised at how huge a resolution this was for Spock. After returning to _w'l'qn_ from his tour with Robau, his outward behaviour had been flawlessly emotionless, but Spock hadn't truly restrained his private emotions since the age of fifteen. Trying to exercise so much discipline after so many years had been far more difficult than he remembered it being, which only frightened Spock more.

It had disturbed Kirk, that much Spock knew. The creature of confident sensuality from Sdvaar had vanished completely, replaced by a silent, expressionless automaton that met all of Kirk's attempts at flirting or humour with a blank, unresponsive stare. The human had been thrown completely off balance by the sudden change, and now treated Spock woodenly at the best of times. Even when they had been mauling each other, clawing for blood and dominance, there hadn't been such an impassable distance between them. Not knowing what to do about it-- about anything-- Spock did nothing.

"Don't bother putting anything on standby power," Kirk said from his chair, not looking at Spock. "We're not staying that long."

At the pilot's console, Spock didn't reply or even acknowledge the order. He had learned that Kirk expected neither. Finishing the last of the docking procedures, he stepped back and returned to the science station without a word. Sulu wouldn't need him to perform the procedures again; over the last six days he had proven his ability to learn any unfamiliar task after watching Spock do it once.

On the whole, Spock found Sulu's cool intensity admirably _w'l'qn_. As a result, he was disturbed to draw such a strong parallel between a human and his people. It was difficult for him to handle anything but complete compartmentalisation. At least Kirk, for once, fit solidly in a box of 'other' that Spock could shove far away from himself.

"We got time for a mail run?" asked Sulu. For once, his characteristic briefness prevented Spock from understanding what he was talking about.

"Yeah," Kirk muttered. "I'll go with."

He got up and stretched. Spock kept his eyes fixed unblinkingly on his monitors, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was telling him how Kirk's shirt was probably riding up to expose his abdomen and hipbone, all pale skin and lean muscle writhing over sharp, fragile bones.

Uhura pulled off her earpiece and tossed it down. "I'm going down to pick her up," she said, already striding for the door.

Within seconds, the bridge was empty. Kirk didn't even bother to mutter at Spock to take the con; they all knew he would stay, and any word that Kirk didn't have to say to Spock was obviously as much a relief for him as it was to Spock. Though Spock had told himself multiple times that separation was beneficial, he hadn't yet succeeded in crushing his hurt at the fact that he was such a wreck that Kirk, who tolerated so much diversity, disrespect and antagonisation from his crew, could barely stand to be around Spock.

It _was _for the best. Spock had a great deal of work to do. Every system on the ship needed to be translated into Standard, every console hacked and modified to accept voice commands in not only Standard but Mandarin, Swahili, French, Francohili, Andorian, Cardassian, Romulan, Klingon, Low Orion and any other language Uhura might spit out in a crucial moment of stress. Deliberately falling into a three-breath meditation pattern to keep his injured heart calm, Spock set to work.

It was 14.354 minutes later (9.114 minutes in _w'l'qn_ time, his mind supplied, though it wasn't a system Spock foresaw himself ever using again) that a small chime from his console alerted him to the crew's return. Without thinking, he reached out for a switch-- and hesitated, his hand hovering over the control, before finally giving into his impulse and turning on the intercom.

Voices from the transporter room came through the one-way connection loud and clear. Spock's suspicions were immediately proven correct: Kirk and Sulu were talking loudly and laughing together in a way that he had never heard them do. It was his presence imposing on them, then. Ashamed anew, Spock still didn't switch the comm off. It was too hard-- he was too weak-- to curb his selfish desire to steal a vicarious moment surrounded by companionship and glorious human warmth.

"We waitin' long on the lass?" came Scott's voice.

"They were right behind us," Kirk answered.

"They? Oh, aye, here 'tis-- transporter req for two. Here we go, then..."

The crackling of the transporter, and then a sudden wash of female laughter filled the room. Spock lifted his head briefly at the other sound: a high-pitched whistling, staccato and exuberant. Either Uhura's companion was of an avian race, Tikk or perhaps Melfulan, or--

"_Ho shomannica laitreee_, Gaila," Kirk said, and Spock recognised the syntax and sound of Orion immediately. A woman replied in kind, suddenly cooler and more collected than her laughter of a moment ago.

"Ye didn't mention we were carryin' passengers," Scott said, his voice a little breathless. "I mighta straightened up the place a tad."

"She's not cargo," snapped Uhura. "She's our other engineer."

"For obvious reasons, we couldn't bring her to Vulcan with us," Kirk said coolly. "They'd have tried to ship her back to the Union the second anybody saw her studs, the fucktards."

"Does she, ah... speak Standard? Or Trill, I'm not picky."

"No."

"Well, this is just wonderful. Me systems are all in Vulcan, I still cannae read half o' me panels and me new coworker and I couldn't share two sentences about sandwiches if we wanted. I haven't had a challenge like this since beamin' Adviser Archer's dog past the moon!"

"_Slamayo hee mitreeshaaa_?"

"That's just Scotty. Mostly harmless-- _slitree'an siproo na_."

"Gaila, is it? I'll show ye around the place, then! Ye won't _believe _the nacelles on this girl!"

"_Sithoo-sha waan_."

"Aye! Just what I was thinkin', I bet."

Spock switched the comm off before he could hear any more. His chest had gone very tight. It was a struggle to place his hands back on the console and return to work.

Just as well that Scott wasn't given to being outside of engineering. He had more suitable company there, now.

Kirk, Sulu and Uhura returned to the bridge shortly after, everything stifled and quiet once more. Uhura stayed only long enough to coordinate launch and immediately departed again without a word, though Kirk seemed to have expected that. Spock doubted she would have stayed even without Kirk's permissive nod. Sulu lingered for a while longer, making what Spock thought were utterly unnecessary course adjustments, before he, too, finally capitulated to Spock's oppressive presence and left as well.

Spock did not care. He was working. Silence with company was as good as silence without, and at least he wouldn't be inflicting himself on the others. The ship was quiet and the crew could be at their own devices while Spock minded the bridge. Here was his place, his function. Drawing his shields close about himself like warm, muffling blankets as he breathed in threes, Spock immersed himself in translating and let the words wash over him.

It was minutes-- or hours?-- later that a throat was cleared, disrupting the silence. Jarred from the headspace of steady work, Spock looked up sharply.

Kirk was leaning against the edge of the bridge door, arms folded over his chest, supple spine curved into an insouciant slouch as he regarded Spock. A light flashing over the door informed Kirk that he was blocking the door's close, but Kirk probably didn't care. Spock hadn't even heard the door open-- hadn't heard Kirk leave, at that, as his re-entry presumed he must have.

"Captain," Spock said quietly, feeling his eartips blush humiliated green as he looked down at his console. It was pure laziness that he hadn't paid enough attention to note Kirk's arrival. Just because his shields were up high enough to block out Kirk's psi waves was no excuse not to notice the man walking in. Obviously he had neglected his awareness for a considerable period of time, too, if Kirk had felt the need to announce himself to Spock.

"Commander Spock," Kirk returned, his tone giving away nothing. He pushed off the door frame and walked onto the bridge. To Spock's alarm, he bypassed the command chair, heading directly for the science station. A spike of pain in Spock's side alerted him to the fact that his heart had begun to beat faster.

Spock turned to face the console on the opposite wall, finding environmental settings to adjust. Doctor McCoy had evidently altered the humidity level again; the hydroreceptors in Spock's nose had been tingling all morning. "Is there anything you require?" Spock muttered.

"Be nice if you looked at me, for a start."

Bland-faced, Spock turned around and fixed his gaze in the vicinity of Kirk's left earlobe. "Is this more acceptable, Captain?"

"At _me_, Spock!"

Spurred as much by the sudden bark of volume as by the painful leap it inspired in his heart, Spock snapped his eyes to Kirk's. They were bright with anger. Suddenly dry-mouthed, Spock wondered how he could possibly have forgotten in only six days and three hours just how very blue Kirk's eyes were.

Forgetting-- careless. Being distracted by dumb animal attraction-- far worse.

"First time in a week you've looked me in the eye," Kirk said in a voice full of suppressed anger. "A _week_, Spock. Something wrong with my face? Personally I thought the bruises healed up all right."

Spock's eyes skittered over the scabbed cut on Kirk's lower lip. He remembered every stage of healing it had gone through since the moment he had backhanded Kirk across the face to each time Kirk had impatiently fretted the scab open again.

"No, don't tell me," Kirk said roughly, and Spock closed his mouth. "It's not me, it's you. Is that it?"

"I--"

"Because god knows, Spock, it's not like I haven't _tried_," Kirk went on furiously. "It's awkward, I _get_ it, everybody gets it. Bones hates you and Sulu doesn't trust you and Uhura can't stand to be in the same room as you without feeling like she's in danger and she should run."

Spock hadn't known that, actually.

"But you know what, Spock? _Deal_. We're trying. I'm almost _done_ trying. What do I goddamn have to _do_?"

"Nothing, Captain," Spock managed at last. "I am capable of rectifying my own errors, now that you have brought them to my attention."

"_Bullshit_!" Frustrated, Kirk took a step forward. Spock immediately shifted back a pace without thinking. Kirk's eyes narrowed.

"Is this because we screwed?" he asked, more quietly, but the words brought a surge of memories to mind and Spock's heart leaped involuntarily in response. The pain caused him to flinch as though Kirk had shouted.

"_Meknah_, Spock," Kirk hissed, his eyes blazing. "It was just a _fuck_. What Vulcan sensibilities did I offend? What do you want me to do, make up for it? Say I'm sorry?"

"No," Spock muttered, turning his face away. If Kirk wouldn't stop _talking_ he couldn't look at the human, couldn't see him without knowing that he knew the texture of Kirk's chapped lips and stubble-burned cheek and slippery-smooth alien tongue, the smell of his salty extravagant sweat, the taste of iron blood and bitter semen.

"Then what do you want from me?" yelled Kirk, driving Spock back another step. "What did I do, what did I say that you want me to fix? Hell, what did I _not_ do? Is that it, Spock? Did I miss a cue? Did I have you wrong all along?"

A bare metre from Spock, who had backed into the wall so far that his spinal ridge pressed hard into the steel, Kirk stopped and asked in barely more than a confused whisper, "Did you not _like_ it?"

Blue eyes went momentarily wide and then narrowed in the silence after his words, as though he felt he had given away too much. Despite the defensive jut of Kirk's chin, however, Spock could see sudden anxiety in Kirk's posture, uncertainty in the eyes that flickered nervously over Spock's face. That was it, then. That was Kirk's real question. But why would--

Somehow, the revelation occurred to Spock very quietly. _Oh_.

Kirk wasn't asking if Spock had enjoyed it. He was asking if Spock had _wanted_ it in the first place.

_Of course_, Spock thought, staring at Kirk. _I should have seen it sooner_.

Because the man-- well, really, he wasn't more than a boy, and he was struggling as badly as Spock. With Pike gone it was the first time Kirk had taken on so much responsibility. He had to be nearly crushed by seeing his crew in such shambles, surely nothing at all like the tight-knit, efficient crew that Spock had heard Pike ran. Kirk was barely at the age of human maturity, whereas Spock had been considered an adult for nine years already. And, Spock realised, Kirk probably had no more experience in peaceful _w'l'qn_-human relations than Spock did.

For all that, Kirk was an experienced slave smuggler. He had been on the underground railroad since fifteen, maybe longer, if sketchy rumours were to be believed. He knew what sexual abuse looked like in all its forms, how consent could be warped and twisted and forced. So what he had done-- cornered Spock alone, broken him down emotionally, stripped his rational thought, pushed him to his knees and dominated him...

Of course Kirk would have been frightened by the fact that Spock became distant and unresponsive afterward. Of course he would wonder if he had hurt Spock too badly for him to give meaningful and actual consent.

"I consented to it," Spock said quietly. It took a force of will, but he made sure to meet Kirk's eyes. "I got exactly what I asked for. You were not in the wrong."

Kirk's nostrils flared. The fright hadn't gone out of his expression. "Yeah, but is that _I wanted it_ or _I was stupid and careless so I deserved it_?"

"I _wanted _it," snapped Spock, angry with Kirk for forcing the admission out of him. When Kirk opened his mouth again, he added, "And I wanted it the way you gave it to me. I _still_ want it."

For a moment, Spock wished he could lower his shields to feel what Kirk was thinking as he stared at Spock in tense silence. There was too much he couldn't read on Kirk's face. But that was how he had started to break the last time. If he let Kirk in now, even for a moment, Spock wasn't sure he would be able to pull himself free of the accelerating spiral.

Kirk finally let out his breath in a shaking rush, and his shoulders sank as the tension ran out of them. "God," he whispered, confirming to Spock just how terrified the human had been. But the raw relief was visible only for a moment before Kirk recovered himself, defensive as ever. Almost immediately Kirk sharpened his eyes again, taking a step closer to Spock that made his hips slink. He tipped his head to the side, equal measures inquiry and seduction in the bared line of his throat as he asked, "You still?"

As aware as Spock was that the seduction was probably more than half artifice, a protective mechanism, it infuriated him. _This far, and no farther_. Nostrils flaring, he stepped away from the wall and shoved Kirk back, reasserting his personal space.

"I still want it," he growled, ripping off the consonants in his secondary vocal cords. "But do not for a _second_ think that just because I like getting on my knees, you can own me, or that because I want to be dominated I cannot lead. What I permit you to do to me in bed-- _if_ I ever permit you to do it again-- means nothing on this bridge or anywhere else. _Nothing_."

His face without its false coyness, Kirk looked at him for a while, and plain, serious examination was somehow the most beautiful expression Spock had ever seen on him. Just... Kirk, being the professional captain he had to be, somewhere underneath it all. The man Pike had trained and trusted.

"Fair enough," he said at last. "And where do we go from here, Spock?"

Spock's body responded immediately, his blood leaping, and a bolt of pain shot through his side at the strain on his heart. Spock closed his eyes for a moment, fighting a wince of pain. To have Kirk without violence, all his glory and none of his harshness, just utter abandon and shameless gratification-- the temptation was fierce and Spock _burned_ for it. In the face of the sudden desperate need that seized him, Spock's bolstering fury collapsed.

"I... cannot," he said, having to force the words out. "Not now. You make me weak. Or I am weak, but I-- I cannot fall apart again. I cannot do this until I have... enough control. Enough to take you."

Kirk couldn't have understood even half of what control really meant to Spock, and yet he nodded in agreement even as his eyes were confused. "If that's what you want," he said distantly, stepping away and turning to leave.

No. He _didn't_ understand. Kirk thought it was a rejection, that Spock was too cowardly to say no outright, but really it was--

Spock reached out and grabbed Kirk's wrist, jerking him back around. Before Kirk could say anything, Spock jammed their mouths together, hard, without finesse or pleasure. Kirk jolted in surprise, relaxed after a moment and tried to surge up against Spock with a hungry gasp, his tongue pushing wet at Spock's mouth.

Startled and displeased, Spock drew back. That wasn't what he wanted, not the tongue and the teeth and desperate, clashing lust. What he'd meant was something less carnal, sweeter and deeper than cheap desire.

Even though Kirk was looking at him in confusion and irritation, Spock leaned in again and pressed his closed lips to Kirk's more gently, hoping the human would get the picture. After a moment, Kirk awkwardly pressed his lips back, struggling halfway between hesitant and still overeager, like he didn't know how to kiss if his tongue wasn't in it. He tried to lick Spock's lips again and then stopped, bumping their noses together as he shifted for another uncertain peck.

At last the fumbling kiss trailed off and they drew apart, eyeing each other uncertainly. Kirk coughed and wiped the corner of his mouth; Spock glanced away at a console, unsure of what to say.

"We're... good, then," Kirk said eventually, his hesitation asking a question.

"Yes," Spock answered. Given the human propensity for misunderstanding and failing to ask for clarification, Spock wanted to make very sure that he had been clear. "There is nowhere I would rather be than at your side in this... enterprise," he said, allowing his mouth to quirk the tiniest bit as he quoted Kirk's words back at him.

Kirk's lips twitched for a bit before he awkwardly smiled back, the expression clumsy on a mouth unused to expressing affection without a smirk or leer. Spock was surprised by it. Had Kirk _ever_ given an honest smile before?

"Okay. Right, then." Kirk abruptly turned away, rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans as he headed for the door. "Come and meet Gaila, Spock. I'm sure Uhura won't have actually left her with Scotty."

He was flinging off careless orders again, no sign of the professional captain or nervous, vulnerable boy, but Spock found that he didn't mind. He of all people certainly couldn't deny Kirk the defence of a mask.

He closed his eyes and permitted himself a wince, pushing his hand over his racing heart. The pain had been splitting him deep since the moment Kirk's lips had touched his. As though he needed a reminder of just how dangerous was the entanglement he was initiating. But Spock could handle it. He could-- would-- keep control.

With a last glance around the bridge to confirm that all stations were quiet, the autopilot functioning well, Spock left the bridge.

He found Kirk in the recreation room, conversing in sinuous Orion with Uhura and the woman who must have been Galia the engineer while Sulu looked on from nearby. The Orion woman was reclining on a couch with her long, bare green legs draped over Uhura's lap, but her bright brown eyes snapped to Spock the moment he entered the room. The look in them was as sharp and dangerous as the pointed teeth Gaila bared in some threatening semblance of a smile.

"_Slamayo hee mitreeshaaa_?"

"Spock," Kirk answered. Recognising that he had been introduced, Spock inclined his head and raised his hand in a _ta'al_.

Gaila rose from the couch with feline grace and approached Spock, wild red curls tossed back over her shoulder with a regal shake of the head. As she prowled a slow circle around him, assessing from all angles, the slink of her hips was far more predatory than alluring. Spock didn't try to follow her with his eyes, remaining still and permitting her blatant inspection with the wary respect he would have given to a half-tame selhat. At last, Gaila completed the circuit with a last dismissive flick of her eyes over his face and turned on her heel, returning to Uhura's lap with casual ease that Uhura reciprocated.

"_Silthy-wa m'benaa surushiss silsaan_?" she asked of Kirk, not sparing Spock another glance.

Kirk looked surprised. "_Saas_. We haven't named the ship," he added, for Spock's benefit.

"We should," Sulu said, looking up from the knife he had been quietly sharpening. "She needs one."

"Do we call her the _Number One_ again?" asked Uhura. Everybody looked to Kirk.

His face had gone tight and still, blue eyes shuttering dark. "No," he said, after a long silence. "The _Number One_ was Pike's ship. She's gone, and he's gone. This is my ship-- our ship. This business is on us. People are going to know _our_ name, now, not Pike's. She's--"

Kirk hesitated, and then looked suddenly at Spock, a wide smirk curling at his mouth. "She's our _Enterprise_, and we're going to raise some absolute fucking hell with her."


End file.
